Absolution
by Rightytighty
Summary: Bobby Brown made a mistake - a huge, life-altering mistake. As he seeks a way to right his wrong, will he have support, or has he successfully turned everyone he loves away from him for good? Tart, Babe/Morelli friendly
1. Chapter 1

_Hi, thanks for clicking on my story. I've got the writing bug again so I decided to roll with it. Actually, you can blame CyborgWithGreatHair - she's currently writing my favorite in progress story, Sink or Swim, in which Bobby is infinitely more likeable than he is here. Her pesky obligations are getting in the way of updates (anyone want to stark a GoFundMe so she can write full-time?) so I started thinking about what would happen if Bobby was less lovable than he was in her story? This is what I came up with. Hope you enjoy._

 **BPOV**

I stand from my cramped seat on the airplane as the captain turns off the 'fasten seatbelts' sign, wincing as my spine shifts into alignment and my calf muscles protest. It is, frankly, a welcome distraction – although this trip home has consumed my thoughts for the better part of a year, the past week of worry has planted an ever-growing ball of unease in my gut.

I deplane along with 150 other travelers and we make our way _en masse_ toward the luggage carousel. As we shuffle along, I keep an eye out for a familiar face or a signature black uniform but I don't see anyone from Rangeman; it's odd, generally there's a pickup waiting for one of us whenever we return home. I don't really have time to dwell on it though, since the luggage carousel comes to life and starts spitting bags onto the belt. I spot my green army duffle relatively early but still haven't managed to find a Rangeman envoy anywhere. Great.

Begrudgingly, I step to the side and start digging through the pockets of my bag in search of my cell to call the office when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I look up…and up and up at the wall of black-clad muscle in front of me.

"Bobby Brown?" an unfamiliar voice grunts at me as I finally reach his face. He's Rangeman, all right – he's got the blank face down. He's also got blazing red hair and is the size of a well-fed ox, and he's frowning into his nearly non-existent neck as he sizes me up. I know he's been sent here to pick me up; what I don't know is why.

"Where's Ric?" I ask before I think better of it. "Ranger," I immediately correct myself, "where's Ranger? Or Tank or Les? I was expecting someone from the Core Team to pick me up. It's pretty standard…" I trail off since I realize I'm rambling and coming off as more than a little odd.

The ox just shrugs and gestures with a role of his bulbous head that I should follow. "Dunno," he grunts, maneuvering us toward the exit. "Ranger says to pick a guy up, I pick 'em up." He pauses long enough to extend one meaty hand and offer a quick, "Name's Angus," before continuing his shuffle toward freedom.

There's little for me to do but follow behind him. I'm confused, and if I'm completely honest, a bit hurt…but then again, part of me has expected a cool reception. The absence of any of the Core Team is telling.

I load by duffle into the back of the black Rangeman SUB and settle in while Ox – okay, Angus – jumps on the 95 headed south toward Trenton. My thoughts are dark, swirling, and something I'd just as soon not dwell on. I've had very little contact with Trenton in 17 months, all of it superficial, and I'd really like to know what I'm walking into. And since I happen to be sharing a vehicle with someone who _has_ been in constant contact with Trenton, I decide to try my luck.

"So, Angus, how long have you been with Rangeman?"

He offers only a "Two months," before falling silent again. I can't help but raise an eyebrow; two months? The guy was probably not even proficient with a gun at this point, and _this_ was who they sent to pick me up? Still, in for a penny, in for a pound…

"Ah. So you'll have met all the guys, then. Are they all still there? Cal, Hector, Junior…I'm guessing Bones took over as medic while I was gone?"

"Yessir," is the only response I get. It occurs to me that this guy may have been handpicked to retrieve me from the airport; he's good at not talking, which means no one had to worry about him oversharing with me. I decide to let it alone and turn to stare out the window at the landscape flying by.

It wasn't that I'd expected a parade when I returned; shit, no. In fact, I think I've grown pretty accustomed to the idea that the exact opposite would be waiting for me when I came back. At the very least, I expected to have a new hole chewed in my ass, maybe a few rounds on the mats with his boss before the guys would accept my return to ranks. But really…really, if was entirely genuine with myself, I think I'd known for a while now that I was fooling myself. I graduated early and with honors, I've successfully infiltrated some of the most stringently guarded places on earth: I'm not an egomaniac, but I can say with confidence that I'm a smart man. Smart men don't believe in the Easter Bunny or Santa Clause, and they don't go believing that everything that happened would be forgotten after a hard session in the gym. No, a smart man would figure out that he'd be lucky if someone called an ambulance to save his sorry ass after his team was through with him.

With a jolt, I realize we're slowing down to exit the freeway. I hastily pull myself out of my sulk as the sign welcoming me to Trenton looms overhead. Funnily enough, it's never looked less welcoming than it does right now.

The parking garage at Rangeman is eerily quiet as walk toward the elevator doors, closely following the lumbering Angus. I no longer have a working badge for Rangeman, Trenton, so I'm completely at his mercy - a fact that only serves to increase my unease. It's unsettling to gauge how uncomfortable I actually am right now; this place has been my home since we started the business together years ago. It's my home, the only one I've ever really had, and I'm sick with apprehension to be here. Angus and I climb aboard the elevator and ride in silence to the control floor and I find myself bracing… for greetings or for an assault, I'm not really sure.

As it happens, my trepidation is in vain – I get neither. As the doors slide silently open, my only greeting is the curious glance of the Rangeman manning the desk. His face is as new to me as Angus' had been an hour earlier. I quickly scan the room, covertly hoping to see a familiar face, but I'm quickly disappointed; there's no one lounging or bustling about the lobby, an oddity considering the men who work here do as much gossiping as they do work.

I try to ignore the faint pang of disappointment I feel; I guess no matter how old you get, being shunned is never a good feeling. Instead, I reach out and grasp Angus's hand, give it a quick shake and murmur my gratitude for the ride and walk with a confidence I don't feel toward the control desk.

"Bobby Brown," I say by way of introduction to the Rangeman manning the control station. This man, I know, would've been at Rangeman longer than the two months Angus boasted; Standard Operating Procedures stated that you couldn't man the desk alone until you've passed your six month assessment. At any rate, knowing the way the guys around here gossiped, he'd been around long enough to have heard at least some of the story of my departure.

My suspicions are confirmed by the tight-lipped grimace New Guy flashes me in greeting. He says nothing, only holding up a single finger at me while he fishes a security badge – a temporary one, I note wryly – from the box kept beneath the desk. He quickly programs it for me and passes it across the counter along with a folded note. His task completed, he turned back to the monitors, effectively dismissing me.

If I wasn't so seasoned at maintaining a calm exterior, I would cheerfully give in to my baser urges and training and make the little shit eat the card he'd deigned to hand over a moment ago; as it is, I have bigger fish to fry, so I simply grind my teeth together and flip open the paper New Guy had passed along. It reads, simply, 'My office' in Ranger's distinctive cramped scrawl.

"Oh, _now_ he wants to see me," I grumble under my breath, turning toward Ranger's office. I decide to leave my duffle by the control desk. If New Guy doesn't like it, New Guy can just eat a box of dicks.

That image cheers me, however briefly, and I use it to fuel my walk to Ric's office. I welcome the distraction. This isn't the specific conversation I've been dreading, but it's not one I'm eager to have, either.

It takes less a minute to find myself outside Ric's office. When a muffled, "Enter," comes seconds after my quick knock, I pull my shoulders back, suck in a quick fortifying breath and entered the lion's den.

Ranger hasn't changed at all in the 17 months since I last saw him. Still taciturn as ever, he exudes a quiet confidence and cool steadfastness that has always been (and still is) impossible to emulate. His unflinching stare has the ability to compel its recipient to confess their deepest secrets with nary a word spoken, and right now, those eyes are trained on me.

The silence is thick in the room as the we regard each other, speculating, assessing. It's a…unique situation, to say the least. Two tours of active duty, an additional four years working covertly with Ric, Les, and Tank, and the steel nerves I had to develop to work in the security industry is not an environment where weakness and nerves thrive. I've witnessed, up close and personal, things that would reduce most men to quivering masses of tears and terror and I walked out the other side with little more than a scratch to show for it. We have been trained and conditioned by the handlers our government assigned us to disregard useless emotions like worry or dread…but if I'm being honest, Ranger is the partner I've been most apprehensive about meeting with again. And from the looks of things, he wasn't partner planning to make this initial meeting painless.

Resigned to my fate, I sigh and hold my hands up in surrender. I move to take a seat in front of Ranger's desk and bow my head, trying to get my bearings and gauge how to best navigate this conversation. I open my mouth but before I can begin, Ranger speaks.

"Here," he says, tossing a manila folder across his desk toward me. It slides to a stop a millimeter from the edge, and I take a second to marvel (not for the first time) at the odd and random skill sets Ranger possesses.

My faint sense of amusement is squashed flat by the contents of the folder.

"What the fuck is this, Ric?" I hiss as my eyes furiously eat through the text of the contract he'd been presented with. "You're _firing_ me?!"

"Relocating, actually." Ranger corrects me, smooth as silk. He opens his mouth to continue but I cut him off, fury making my face flame.

"Fuck that, you arrogant prick! You do realize that I'm your partner, not your fucking lackey, right? I don't _work for you_ , Manoso, you have no- "

Ranger cuts md off, holding up one hand to silence my ranting and pissing me off further. "It's not an order, Brown. It's an offer. You get to go back to the Atlanta office, permanently. You'll retain the salary, the percentage in Rangeman, position, everything. Antonio has been making noise for a couple of years now about retiring, you could be next in line to run that office. Something to think about." With that, he leans back in his chair, calm as you please, and fixes that damnable stare on me.

I can't help but regard him with thinly veiled suspicion; he's caught me off guard and he knows it. I suspect that was his intention, however, bringing the fact to his attention won't help my cause in the least. Instead, I give voice to my jumbled thoughts. "Why now? Why didn't you offer me this when I was in Atlanta? Hell, for that matter, why hasn't this been on the table at any point in the last 17 months?!"

My rant is met with silence. We sit together, silently assessing each other, one of us moderately hostile, the other mildly disinterested, for several tedious minutes. Finally, Ranger lets out a barely perceptible sigh before answering.

"We thought it would be best for everyone."

"We?" I intone, frowning. "We, who? What…you, Tank and Les?"

Ric fixes his steely cool stare at me and answers with two words: "And Stephanie."

At that I can't help but wince and drop my eyes to my lap. There's nothing, not a goddamn thing I can think to say in rebuttal, so instead painstakingly arrange the papers back into the folder they'd come in. I know without needing to hear it from Ric that we're done here, so I stand slowly. I'm no longer in a rush to reacquaint myself with my home office, but before I leave his office there's one thing I have to ask. Though I know it's cowardly, I can't help but softly ask, "Is she…how is she?"

In an instant, Ranger's passive demeanor changes; he looks at me with nothing short of contempt, his wordless warning clear: drop it.

"Your apartment was filled after you decided to extend your visit to Atlanta," he answers, deliberately ignoring my half-hearted question. "Ella set up a temporary room for you in the second patient room off the infirmary. All your personal stuff was boxed up, it's in a locked storage unit in the basement." Here he pauses while reaching for a keyring with two keys attached. He offers it to me as he comes around his desk to hold open his office door. I recognize it as a dismissal and follow Ranger to the hallway without speaking again.

Once we're clear of his office, Ranger shuts the door and turns to continue speaking. "Your security pass is set at your usual clearance. Bones has taken over medic duties, and we'll figure out what to do about that after you've given our proposal some thought and made a decision. In the meantime, you're off rotation until we can rework the schedule."

Ranger stops speaking and looks at me then, raising one eyebrow in question. There is absolutely nothing I could ask, nothing that would salvage this conversation, so I simply nod and turn on my heel to head toward the infirmary.

My thoughts turn sour and self-pitying. _Geez,_ _talk about 'unwelcome'_ … Ranger couldn't have been more clear that he'd prefer it if I make my tenure in Atlanta permanent. I had certainly expected some blowback; hell, I wholly believed I'd deserved it and had prepared myself for the eventuality that I'd be met with a heave degree of difficulty re-immersing myself in Trenton… I guess I just hadn't considered that my absence would've caused things to change so drastically.

 _And permanently, it seems…_

As I make my way down to the infirmary, I find myself simultaneously dreading and longing for the happenstance of running into any one of my old colleagues; despite the frosty reception I'd gotten so far, I'd returned home because I was homesick. When I reached the infirmary and that hope didn't materialize, I cross my fingers and open the door to the patient room, hoping it was somehow bigger than I remember.

 _Strike two,_ I think grimly as I take in the sparsely outfitted room. It was meant for short patient stays, not a live-in guest, and while Ella was generally a domestic goddess, I have a sneaking suspicion she hadn't put too much effort into making this space homey for me.

I enter the room and shut the door behind me before flopping onto the bed and reflecting on my current situation. I can't help but feel more than a little sorry for myself before I immediately feel loathsome for my self-pity. _I've had warmer receptions while infiltrating enemy camps_ , I think sourly, tucking my hands behind my head and letting my mind wander.

Atlanta, though beautiful, wasn't home. And while The Big Peach had much to offer, I had felt the pull of New Jersey from the moment I'd disembarked from the plane that took me to Georgia.

Now, here in this room in the bowels of Rangeman, Trenton, it's painfully, pathetically obvious to me at this point that the sense of peace that comes with being home is not going to come…and truth be told, I'm pretty sure I don't deserve it, anyway.

 _You don't even know what happened after you left,_ a small voice inside my head whispers. _It could all be a moot point anyway…_

With a groan, I turned over, bury head beneath my pillow, and offer a silent prayer of thanks for the soundless oblivion I fall into; here, at least, there is peace.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/n: my last story was written in a 3rd person POV; I'm going to first this time and will be switching POVs. I'll label them clearly before I switch off, so please keep a keen eye out so as not to confuse yourselves. Thanks for your words of encouragement, they are truly appreciated!_

* * *

 **BPOV**

I stretch my arms above my head and let loose a jaw-cracking yawn followed by a loud groan. I'd just woken from my impromptu nap in my impromptu quarters. It was a little too early to go back to sleep for the night, and too late to start something new. Someone had carried my duffle down from the control room and left it outside the door to my room; my options for any activity were severely limited at this point, so I decide a shower is in order – my only problem being that there's no shower in the medical suites. I contemplate my options, finally grabbing a change of clothes and my minimal toiletries and head out for the gym showers. I'm tired and travel-worn and more than a bit forlorn, and getting cleaned up sounds appealing; I find myself looking forward to it and allow myself a little extra spring in my step as I head for the gym.

Fifteen minutes later, I'm sagging against the wall, my legs trembling faintly, replaying my best friend's words in my head as I watch him storm away, his shoulders tense with righteous fury. The confrontation that just took place in the showers with Lester has sapped me of any energy I'd gained from the nap I took. I knew, of course I knew, that there'd be hell to pay when and if I ever decided to return to Trenton. But Les…we met in basic training when we both signed up almost _two decades_ ago, and we've been partners ever since. I had zero family, Les had too much, and we'd found a balance in each other that worked. He has, quite literally, saved my life. We've been brothers in every sense of the word for half my life… and as I sit and replay the words he just shouted at me in my head, I'm forced to consider the reality of the situation I've put myself in. I may not be afforded the opportunity to make amends for my shortcomings; that's been my plan for so long, almost since the moment I left Trenton. I may have, in a very real sense, ended the life I'd worked hard to build for myself here. The realization is crippling.

I take a moment to breathe, studiously ignoring the glares I'm getting from my former coworkers. With some effort, I push myself off the wall and slowly gather my dirty laundry. Lester held a mirror up to face and forced me to take a good, long look at myself; Christ, what was I thinking, coming back here? Of course I wouldn't be welcomed! Who on God's green earth would accept me back after the stunt I pulled, after leaving her –

I have to cut off that train of thought; I'm too vulnerable right now as it is. I'll think about her and what I did to her later; right now, at this moment, I simply can't bear it.

I make my way as stealthily as possible back to my room in the infirmary, my mind swathed in darkness as I contemplate my next move. Maybe I, along with the entire Trenton office, would be better off if I just tucked tail and left for good…but there's a visceral pain, a lancing through my chest that causes me to struggle for my next breath as I consider that. I know now that somewhere, on some inner level that I hid even from myself, how great my desire to make a place here again is; how much I want things the way they were before I ran out on everyone who cared for me. Fuck, I wanted my _life_ back, especially the months leading up to my departure, when I'd been the absolute happiest I'd ever been.

I whip my head back and forth, snapping myself out of my reverie. _Tonight,_ I promise myself, _tonight when I'm in bed and alone I'll allow myself to think of her, to remember._

I keep my head down, eye on the prize, and concentrate on being invisible as I weave my way through hallways. I'm nearly there when a large wall of muscle steps out of an office, directly (and purposely) into my path. I'm brought up short, and instinctively raise my eyes to meet with Tank's.

We regard each other silently for a moment, still as stone, until he speaks.

"You're back." Tank's statement holds no hint of question.

"I am," comes my hoarse response. Best case scenario, I'd expected to be ignored, so the fact that Tank addresses me at all is a pitifully welcome surprise.

"You staying?" Tank's rumbling voice holds no note of the contempt I've experienced that day, but I've been made well aware of my standing here. I must proceed cautiously.

"I'd like to," I offer, rocking back on my heels a bit. "Doesn't seem like I have much of a say in the matter, though. Atlanta is the only choice I'm being offered."

Tank's succinct response implies much. "You always have a choice, Brown," he intones before nodding his great head and steps around me to continue on his way.

I sigh and continue on my way, grateful that I'm almost there. My mind is a running slideshow of memories, each misstep and wrong turn being broadcast in technicolor; my heart feels leaden in my chest. Really, I just want this day to be over. I wanted the oblivion that sleep can bring. I want to be Scarlett O'Hara and think about all of this tomorrow.

Of course, kismet doesn't take pity on me. As I approach my room, I notice a thin beam of light glowing beneath the door; I feel my brow furrow in response. I'm sure I turned everything off when I left earlier... I'm actually a bit apprehensive as I approach the door and slowly swing it inward.

Stephanie Plum sits on the lone chair, hands folded in her lap and her head bowed, eyes fixed on some imaginary spot on the carpet in a thousand-mile stare, a frown pulling down the corners of her plump lips. She is as breathtakingly beautiful as I remember; more so, it seems, because she's positively the most glorious thing I've ever seen. A sharp wrench, more pronounced than the anxiety-induced pains that have been my constant companion these last months, tears at my very fiber as I take her in, and I flash briefly back to the confrontation with Les in the gym and the words he'd yelled at me hoping to inflict injury.

 _Bobby had just finished dressing in clean clothes when Les sauntered in, muscles gleaming and covered in sweat, laughing at something Cal was ribbing him about. Bobby'd grinned and shouted his friend's name in greeting when he saw him, but the smile he wore faded when Lester's head whipped around and his eyes met with Bobby's. The look that Les shot was filled with malice and the disgust lurking in his green eyes was palpable. Bobby felt himself shrinking back from the man he'd always thought of as family and held his breath, the only thought in his head being 'here it comes….'_

" _What are you doing here still?" Les snapped, every muscle in his taut body rigid as he prowled slowly toward Bobby. "Ranger was supposed to give you the transfer papers as soon as you arrived; you can arrange to have your stuff shipped to Atlanta. There's not a reason in the world you should still be hanging around."_

 _Bobby managed to conceal the look of hurt he felt bubbling just beneath his skin's surface before replying. "Gee, Les, good to see you too, buddy, I'm great, thanks for asking" he grumbled back before immediately feeling like shit. Les didn't deserve his animosity; Bobby had been quite content heaping that on himself the past year plus. Bobby crossed his arms in front of his body and opened his mouth to apologize but Les cut him off._

 _With a sneer, he said, "Do you honestly think I give a shit how you're doing? You've been gone a year, more than that, and you haven't called her ONCE. Know how I know? Because I HAVE been there. Every day. Being her friend, because my dickwad fucknose ex-partner left her alone and pregnant and didn't have the fucking DECENCY to call her ONE. TIME. and check on her. And I know THAT because I listened to her cry every day for the first goddamn two months you were gone, until she made herself so sick she had to be hospitalized. But you didn't know any of that, did you, asshole? Because you'd rather cower away and pretend life is a bowl of cocksucking cherries and ignore the fact that you abandoned your woman and your child so you could traipse off and live with no attachments. You're the worst kind of coward. You're not wanted here, not by anyone. Take the Atlanta offer and get the fuck out of Trenton, ASAP."_

 _And with that, Lester had turned and stomped out of the gym and left Bobby with the confirmation that all of his worries and regrets had, in fact, come to fruition_

"Steph?" I can't stop myself, shock rooting me to the floor. _God, she looks even better than I remember…_

Her head snaps up to attention, her eyes landing immediately on mine. I feel, actually _feel_ my heart stutter in my chest, the same longing and adoration I always feel when I think of this woman swelling to a deafening crescendo that makes me wince. The look she gives me wasn't the one that colored his dreamscapes: the one where she wore a soft smile and look of affection on her face. No, _this_ was a carefully constructed blank stare, her eyes devoid of any emotion. Her cupid's bow mouth drew up at the corners in the semblance of a tight smile, but the pinched grimace on her face made her true feelings about seeing me again glaringly obvious.

"Hello, Bobby," she forces out. Her wooden greeting coupled with the stiff way she rises and stands sends a clear signal: proceed with caution. I'm a shit, all I can think is that I want to run and throw myself at her feet, beg her forgiveness, her favor, but I won't. I owe her that much.

And so I enter the room slowly, closing the door behind, giving her time to object as I greedily drink in the sight of her. She's so different, yet exactly the same as when I last saw her. When she doesn't speak, I blow out the breath I've been holding and lean against the wall, trying for all the world to appear at ease when I am anything but.

"Hey, Steph," I answer, heart pounding a steady loud beat in my ears. "How are…what's…what are you doing here?"

I know what she sees as she stares at me, her perfect brows drawn fractionally closer in her perusal: her former lover and the man who abandoned her when she told him she was pregnant with his child. The forced look of detachment, tinged with sadness, pains me to my core.

She draws in a slow, controlled breath before answering me. "I'm well. I actually just need to give you some paperwork while you're here. It's easier to get this done while you're in Jersey than to try and manage it interstate."

I don't miss the implication that she believes my leaving again is already a done deal, but I decide addressing it isn't important at the moment; instead, I shuffle slowly toward her, trying to savor every moment; God only knew when I'd have this chance again.

"Paperwork?" I croak, extending a shaky hand to take the folder she offers me, sitting on the edge of my mattress to open it. Inside, there are two separate sheaves of paper, both appearing to be legal documents. Stephanie continued to stand rigidly, arms crossed tightly in front of her body, giving off every appearance of discomfort.

"Yeah. Tom – you remember Tom Lowe, Rangeman's attorney? – he's offered to handle everything for the both of us; he says it'll be faster that way. It's a Voluntary Termination of Parental Rights, and the other document is to acknowledge paternity. Turns out you can't give up rights to a baby you have no claim on, and since your name isn't on the birth certificate, this is the route we have to go. I mean, you're welcome to request a DNA test, Tom said he could handle that too, but since you're going to be signing away your rights anyway I just figured –"

It's the worst of cliché's, but I swear my mind short-circuits and goes blank as she rambles (a trait I've always found adorable in her, and her biggest tell when she's nervous about something). I completely miss everything after she mentions the paperwork, but the phrase 'DNA test' brings me 'round lightning quick. I cut her off mid-ramble in a mild panic. "Whoa, whoa, hold up – 'Termination of Parental Rights'? So that…I mean, you had the baby then?"

As soon as I blurt that question out, I regret it. I am, without question, the biggest bastard on the entire planet. As uncaring as I'd been in leaving, making Stephanie feel any pain had _never_ been my intention. Seeing her in misery ate at my soul; it was her last and final breakup with Ranger and her subsequent depression that strengthened our friendship, which fed into a one-sided crush I'd harbored for months before finally kissing her one fine night. Our love affair lasted until the day Steph showed me 3 different pregnancy tests that all agreed that she was, in fact, with child. Her face like thunder, she opens her mouth to speak.

 **SPOV**

As much as it pains me to sit here in a room with Bobby Brown, I'd come to Rangeman today specifically to get him to sign these custody papers and that is, by God, what I was going to accomplish. The anger, the _rage_ I'd stewed in for months was something I have striven to leave behind me, and my intention today was to behave civilly and get the hell out of Dodge as soon as I had a quick conversation with Bobby about custody.

The path to the Hell I found myself sitting in had (at least in my case) been paved with good intentions. I consider myself reasonable, if somewhat passionate (okay, maybe 'passionate' was a prettied up version of 'full-steam ahead pissed off')…but I just can't. I factually can NOT sit here and listen to him so cavalierly refer to my sweet baby like she is an unhappy byproduct of a bit of fun he had. I feel my blood pressure raise and my face glow red; if Bobby leaving had temporarily crushed my spirit, his return lit a fire inside me.

"Yeah. I did," I seethe, fury making my posture board-straight. Bobby seems to shrink back a bit and I can tell, because I knew him so well for so long that he really does feel badly about the way he spoke, but I'm not through with him yet. " **I** had her and **I'm** taking care of her. I don't need anything from you except your signature. That's it. Please sign the documents and get them back to Tom **before** you go, I can't afford to pay an attorney in Georgia to handle your end of it."

I reach down to scoop up my purse from the floor so I can leave, but Bobby stands from his perch on the bed and holds his hands out in a gesture of surrender.

"I'm sorry, that came out completely wrong," he says, the words rushing out. He seems anxious, and I can't tell if my anger is the cause or if it's the prospect of my leaving; vainly, I hope it's the latter. He presses on, stammering an apology. "I didn't mean anything by it, I just… I didn't know what happened after I…since I've been gone."

I can only glare at him. "Well, if you'd answered one of the DOZENS of messages I – no, you know what? I'm not doing this." I abruptly stopped myself mid-rant and take a deep breath, then another and another until the flush in my skin has cooled to a manageable burn and I am noticeably calmer. After a few minutes of slow, calming breaths, I start again.

"I have worked incredibly hard," I say, eyes closed and enunciating carefully so as not to allow myself to begin another rant, "to not be angry with you. It made me bitter and callous, and that is not the mother my daughter deserves. I work hard every day to be worthy of that little girl, and that is how I intend to proceed. Now," I open my eyes and point my heated stare at him, "hear what I say because God willing, this will be the last conversation I ever have with you: you get nothing. No information, no details. You get exactly what you wanted, and that is a child-free life. I want you to sign those papers so I can appoint a guardian for my daughter in case anything happens to me, and so I don't have to worry about her deadbeat absentee father coming back in some fit of good intentions and uprooting her life. She is perfect and healthy, and that's all you need to know. Now sign. The. Papers."

And with that, I sail past Bobby and out the door, leaving him clutching the papers that would forever separate his life from ours.


	3. Chapter 3

**BPOV**

As I sat nursing my beer at the bar in a local shithole tavern, I let myself reflect back on the last few days of my life.

I'd become a pariah of sorts; I'd half expected it, and truth be told, I'm a little proud of the Rangeman employees for doing what they considered to be the honorable thing – refusing to befriend the man who'd left one of their own without so much as a 'farewell'. There has been no outright aggression in the three days since I'd returned, but the hostility rolled off the men in waves, particularly from those who had known Steph the longest.

When things had ended between her and Ranger two years ago, he'd encountered a similar reception from the men. He, too, had decided to make himself scarce by departing to 'attend to business' at the Miami offices for a few months. I'd always felt… _something_ for Stephanie Plum, but that something always seemed to be morphing into something different. Initially, when Ric first started helping her, she was kind of like a mascot: cute, harmless, but didn't really serve a purpose. As time went by, she got better at her job and it looked like she was going to stick it out, and my amusement turned into a begrudging respect. When she became a coworker, I felt a sense of obligation to help her become better, and when she and Ranger were in their off again/on again phase and I saw her for the woman she was, I felt the faintest stirrings of jealousy and longing. It wasn't until after he'd sat her down and told her that she needed more from a man than he'd ever be able to give and encouraged her to move on from him that our relationship, and not just my view of her, changed. I became her close friend and confidant, encouraging her not to abandon her career just because Ranger wasn't the guy for her. I fed my desire for her with scraps – the way she'd pull me to her for a hug, the soft sigh she'd let out when we watched a movie together that told me she felt safe with me – until I took the leap and kissed her one day.

I smile to myself as I think about that day – the pretty way she'd pouted at me because I wouldn't let her drive my car, play wrestling for the keys and the surprised gasp when I'd pressed my mouth to hers. That was all it took for us to become an 'us', until I'd fucked it up in spectacular fashion.

I sigh and scrub my face with the rough palm of my hand. Thinking about Stephanie did nothing to dull the ache that lived constantly in my chest. _All I'm missing is a friendly barkeep who gives out sage advice,_ I think and snicker. Yep, I'm pretty sure I passed 'buzzed' and am well on my way to 'blackout drunk', which suits me just fine.

I down the rest of my beer and order another before I hop down from my perch at the bar and walk toward the restroom. When I return, I'm only slightly surprised to see the familiar figure on the stool beside mine.

With a terse nod, I greet my old friend. "Ranger." Ranger simply nods in return and tips back the beer that I'd ordered. Grudgingly, I wave the bartender over to ask for another.

After a moment of silence, I decide to break the ice; I'm curious to see what he's up to. "What brings you here?"

Ranger barely lifts one shoulder and doesn't look at me before taking another pull of his beer. He places the bottle on the bar slowly, contemplating quietly for a moment before speaking.

"You being here, like this – it isn't good. There's too much uncertainty; it's making the men restless," he begins. "I'd like to know where you're at as far as considering the job offer in Atlanta."

Fuck. He _would_ be here to bring this up. I've spent the past three days doing two things: avoiding run-ins with any Rangemen and wondering what the hell I'm supposed to do now. I left the building tonight in the hopes that I could give it a rest because frankly, I'm no closer to figuring out my situation than I was when I started. I'm tired to my soul and the self-loathing I marinate in every minute of every day is doing little to bring clarity to me.

Still, I consider what Ric asked for a moment before closing my eyes in defeat and answering. "Honestly, Ric, I don't know. I wish I did. What I _do_ know is Stephanie Plum hates me so much that she wants me to sign away my rights to the...to my daughter. I know from the papers Tom drew up that Steph named her Phoebe _Plum_ , not Brown, and didn't list me on her birth certificate, _and_ I know that I'm pretty much the most hated employee in the history of Rangeman Trenton. Other than that, I'm just drinking this beer and trying to figure out what I should do. So if you've got any advice, I'm all ears." I tilt my bottle up and drain half its contents, the spiel I just gave sapping me of my false calm; in truth, I'm a wreck and I'm desperate not to let Ric see it.

Ric, in typical Ric fashion, says nothing. He just looks at me, quietly assessing me as I look straight ahead and pretend he's not there. _One night, that's all I wanted – one night without feeling persecuted by my ex-friends and my own demons, one night to sit at this bar and drink myself into oblivion. One night!_

So deep am I in my pity party dialog that I almost miss his quiet voice.

"Depends, I guess."

I am _so_ not in the mood for his monosyllabic word games, but really, what the fuck else am I doing right now? So, I bite.

"Depends on what, Ranger?"

"Depends on how far you're willing to go to convince Stephanie that you regret what you did and that you want her back. And that you're still in love with her."

I can't help it. I gape at him. Ranger talking for any length of time is an anomaly. Ranger talking about _feelings_ is akin to a verbal Bigfoot spotting. It's _what_ he's saying, however, that really has me floored.

I open my mouth to deny, to argue, because that's what I've been doing for the past year and a half, but really…what's the point? I know I love her, he knows I love her, and we both have a vested interest in seeing this conversation through. I relent.

"I don't think Stephanie has any interest in forgiving me," I say, slow and pointedly. "I can't envision a scenario where she'd even be willing to discuss the possibility of not actively hating me, much less taking me back; to be fair, I don't blame her. Plus, she's got the, ah, baby to think about now and that's just… it's a situation I'm not sure I could be a part of anyway." I finish in a rush, trying to spit out the deplorable truth… because it is deplorable, but also very real. I can't think of a way for me to be a part of this baby's life, even if it means I won't get to be a part of Steph's either.

Ranger again leans away and slowly assess me, and I can practically hear the 'click' as he connects all the dots.

"You never told her. About any of the shit that happened in that home when you were a kid, you never told her. Any of it?" The last part is a question, but he knows the answer. And even though he doesn't bring up any of the shit I shared with him, Tank, and Les, doesn't specify any of the horror I lived through in that place, I still blanch and feel my nuts crawl up inside my abdomen. No, safe to say that skeleton is not buried.

"Why the fuck would I tell her that? The only reason you know any of it is because that loaf of bread Les bought in Seoul had peyote baked into it. I would **never** tell her any of that shit." I spit the last part out; just thinking of my past and Stephanie in the same context has me bristling and ready to fight.

I see him contemplate me for a moment, and I swear, I _swear_ if he showers me with an ounce of pity I'm going to go batshit fucking crazy. I can taste copper and realize, belatedly, that I'm biting my tongue to keep my mouth shut.

He must sense how close to the edge this conversation is taking me because he makes it a point to slide a few inches further away from me on his stool, giving me the breathing space I so desperately need right now. After a few moments, I can feel my tense muscles relaxing, bit by bit. I slam the rest of my beer and signal for another, ignoring the side eye Ric gives me.

The fucker waits for me to take another swig before he says, "She'd understand, you know. Steph is like that. Doesn't matter what it is, she sees through the bullshit and the ugliness and finds what makes you your best self."

I nearly choke on my brew but manage to hold it down; I don't need anyone to tell me how caring Stephanie Plum is, least of all the only other person on this earth who left her alone and hurting the same way I did. I want to hurt him back, as badly as I'm hurting, so I take aim and fire.

"That didn't seem to matter to you when you dumped her and took off for Miami, did it." I meet his eyes with mine, expecting menace and finding only speculation and, if I'm not mistaken, a bit of regret.

He turns away from me and fixes his stare on the racks of bottles behind the bar, toying with the frayed edge of the bottle label. It's a few moments before he speaks again.

"It mattered," he says, his voice thick with grit and emotion as he focuses on something I can't see. "I was selfish for far too long with Stephanie. I knew where she wanted it to head, and I knew I couldn't give it to her but…I couldn't walk away from her. Not for a long time, and not until it was almost too late."

He turns his head just so, still not looking at me, just enough that I know he's speaking to me and continues.

"She wanted…traditional things. As much as she bucked against the Chambersburg traditions," here he smiles wistfully, "she was going to want that eventually, just without the expectations from everyone else. Long-term commitment. A family. A husband who wasn't leaving with no notice for months at a time. She was too, _is_ too, loving to ever have told me otherwise but I know she would have felt empty without all that. And so," he draws in a deep breath and turns, finally, to face me, "I gave her up so she wouldn't have to give up her dream. I want her happy more than I want her with me."

I don't miss the way he says 'want' and that it's not past tense, and that sends a small bolt of panic through me. I scowl and try to wound him again.

"So it's totally fine that _you_ don't want kids but not me? You broke up with Steph to avoid eventual fatherhood, hell, you **have** a kid out there that you hardly see! Why is it so different and unbelievable that I might feel the same?!"

Quicker than I can track in my drunken state (okay, I'll be honest – probably quicker than I could track stone sober), Ranger snatches a fistful of my shirt and yanks me forward and I'm forced to grab onto his massive forearms to keep from falling to the sticky bar floor on my ass. He growls in my ear and I think, for a second, that his menacing scowl is the last thing I'm ever going to see. Then, just as abruptly, he shoves me back into place and releases me.

I huff and try to straighten my clothes, glowering at Ranger while he ignores me. I see his jaw ticking, however, and I know I've gotten to him. My blood is boiling, as much from this conversation as from self-loathing and I'm positively coming out of my skin. I need a fight; a good, old-fashioned brawl, and I can smell blood in the water. I suck in a breath, totally focused on my intention to antagonize him and goad him into a fight and am forced to come up short when he speaks again.

"Don't." He shoots me a baleful look, shaking his head as he focuses on his peeling bottle label. "I know what you're after, so just knock it off. I'm not going to fight with you, Brown, so forget it."

"Why the hell not?!" I'm so mad I can _taste_ the anger in my mouth, and the knowledge that I'm mad at myself more than anything is only feeding it.

"Because you believe you're right about me, but you don't know what you're talking about. I'm trying like hell to get you to stop and _think_ about this instead of react to it, before you take this to a place you can't come back from." He turns then, fully turns so his body is facing mine, and his face and voice are so earnest and somber that it douses my anger and shuts my mouth. Ranger has been my leader, my commander, for half my life. When the man speaks like this, you listen; it's been ingrained in us since we started training together. I quiet my body and my mind and concentrate on his voice.

"My reasons for not wanting a family are different than yours, but the result is the same: we both gave Stephanie up. I _am_ the mission. I _am_ the job. I don't think I can stop it, even if I wanted it. The difference is, you've got the family already. You've got a little girl who is pretty damn cute, Brown, and I can tell you from experience: giving up the chance to be a father of a cute little girl might seem like a fair option, but it's not. Not even close." His breath hitches slightly and he has to clear his throat before he continues. "You will wonder, every day for the rest of your life, how she's doing and who she is, and wonder if she also likes fried plantains or if she's good at math like you, and you'll want to know her but you won't be able to. So you'll fill your time with shit that doesn't matter, because you think hey, something is better than nothing, but the truth is all you'll ever have is nothing until you die."

He pauses and looks at his lap then, and I can't tell if it's because he's finished speaking or because he can't go on without breaking.

I wait a few beats before speaking.

"The truth is, Ric, that I don't think I'd be good for _her_. For the baby, I mean. Being around something that…helpless and…breakable, man…I just don't think I can do it." I feel like a shit saying it, but there it is - I've seen first-hand how vulnerable a baby is. A shudder runs through me at the memories….no. I can't do it. I feel anxiety cover me like a cloak at the _thought_ of how small and frail those babies were and I know that I can't be a father.

Ranger stands from the bar stool and reaches in his back pocket to pull out his wallet. He unfolds it and reaches inside, presumably to pull out the cash to pay for his beer. Instead, he drops a bomb in my lap.

It's a wallet-sized photo of a little girl. She sits on a lap, whose I can't see, but she's staring straight at the picture taker with a wide, toothless grin. Her curly black hair is held back from her face by an ornate white band, the bright contrast with her toffee-cream skin making her eyes seem to jump off the page. Her eyelashes seem to go on for days and frame the bluest eyes I've seen since I last looked into her mother's. Her round, smiling face is made all the more precious by the single dimple in her left cheek; as I stare at her face, I raise my left hand to my own cheek and touch, by memory, the spot where I know my own dimple lies. I feel terror and elation, and oddly a bit of pride as I drink her in. This is her. Phoebe. Wow.

Just to be sure, I flip the photo over, remembering that some parents write the names and dates of their children on the backs of their pictures. Even better, I find an age: 'Phoebe, 8 months, sitting on Ranger'.

That must mean that he's seen her, that he _knows_ her. I raise my head from the photo, intent on grilling him, only to find that he slipped out of the bar while I was staring at the picture of my daughter.

I blink, owl-like, at his vacated seat before cursing him. _Well played, Ric_ , I think bitterly, standing and dropping a handful of bills on the bar. I turn to leave, making sure to tuck the picture of the baby I made with Stephanie inside my wallet for safe keeping.


	4. Chapter 4

**SPOV**

The bell above the door to Brenda's rang merrily, announcing my arrival to the greatest diner in all of Trenton. It was small, out of the way, and if I could ignore the fact that it had been a favorite of Bobby's as well when we were together, it was a nice little place.

When Bobby suggested it for our meeting (the details of which were still unclear to me), I'd initially balked before rethinking it; foot traffic in Brenda's was sure to be lighter and less 'local' than Pino's and I really didn't want to be overheard. The last thing I wanted was for any of the details of my custody arrangement for Phoebe to become general knowledge; Lord knows Chambersburg had gotten more than their pound of flesh from me over the years, they didn't need to add my daughter to their ranks.

I spot Bobby as soon as I clear the door, sitting exactly where he said he'd be. As I make my way over to him, careful to maintain a neutral expression, I'm secretly glad I took a few extra minutes to touch up my makeup and change into something a little nicer than my Rangeman uniform. It isn't every day a girl meets with the man who abandoned her while pregnant, and piling on mascara to invoke confidence is the Jersey Girl way.

Apparently, it worked. I see his eyes widen fractionally in appreciation as I slide into my seat, and though I know it makes me petty, I'm gratified to think that he still finds me attractive. That thought leads me to take stock of him and I can't help but notice that his face is drawn and tired-looking, and the broad, straight shoulders I'd once loved to trace with my fingertips are slumped. He offers me a tired, sad half-smile and greets me.

"Steph. Thanks for coming." He opens his mouth to say more but we're interrupted by our waitress. Bobby nods a me to go first.

"Coffee, please."

He frowns at that. "Just coffee? What happened to the girls who could down 3 slices of pie a night?" His attempt at a joke falls flat when I don't return his smile. He quietly asks for a cup of coffee as well; our waitress, sensing her dreams of a big tip sailing out the door, huffs off to get our order.

I use this opportunity to start the conversation; really, at this point, I just want to find out what he needs to know and answer his questions so I can get the custody paperwork back to Tom and filed. Bobby's being here, in Trenton, has taken a bigger toll on me than I anticipated. I find his presence to be… distracting. Work has been tense, the guys have been _hovering_ over me and escorting me every place I go in the building. I almost had a coronary the other day when I exited the bathroom and ran smack into Hal, who had decided to stand sentry and walk me to the 12:15 budget meeting. And when I get home in the evenings, the time I usually spend basking in Phoebe and playing with her has been overshadowed by the loose ends dangling on the edges of my life. I just want everything resolved already.

I clear my throat and begin. "So what's the issue?" Our waitress returns with our coffee just then, setting the steaming cups in front of us before retreating without a word. I pointedly ignore my cup and stare at Bobby. He seems hesitant, troubled even, and takes his time blowing the steam from his mug before taking a long, slow sip. I am doing my best to maintain my carefully constructed demeanor of calm, but inside I'm a raging mass of upset. I try (politely! I swear I'm trying to be nice!) to prompt him again.

"Is there a problem with the paperwork?" Now he's starting to look supremely uncomfortable; I think I get it. This isn't exactly a 'diner coffee' conversation, and while I don't have any interest in making this whole process simple for him, it is in my daughter's best interest to expedite this process as smoothly as possible. So, I try again and aim for helpful (please note that my aim has never been the greatest).

"Tom says that it's a pretty standard agreement in cases like ours," I begin, trying to remember that hating Bobby's rotten, stupid guts doesn't mean that I can't try and charm him into doing what I need him to. I aim for pleasant and continue. "You sign the documents and it absolves you of any rights to my daughter. In return, I agree that you're not responsible for her care for her lifetime; medical insurance, schooling, maintenance," I tick off my fingers, hoping he's getting the picture – kids are expensive, "will all be solely my responsibility." I swallow the urge to say something biting here about how they've been my responsibility since I had her and forge ahead. "If you sign this and we hand it to Tom to file, he assures me we can have this resolved in less than 3 months. You may have to appear – that's at the judge's discretion – but it's unlikely."

Bobby has slowly been shaking his head while staring at the table almost since I started speaking; at first it was barely discernable but it's gotten more pronounced as I've prattled on. Now it's almost vigorous and I can't take it anymore.

"What?!" I snap at him. The anger I feel right now is absolute in its consummation of me and I hope, really and truly do, that he gives me a reason to slap him. I'd love to hurt him in some small way at this point, so I wait, totally on edge, for him to outline whatever point it is he isn't happy with.

What he says douses my rage and kills it stone dead.

"I don't think I can sign it at all, Steph," he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed tight, and whispers, "I think I want to know her," and all I can think is _OhGodohGodohGodohGod…._

This is, quite literally, the stuff of nightmares. When Phoebe was born, most moms I knew warned me about normal mom things – baby blues and irrational fears, like her head popping off if I let her cry too hard (a disturbing visual Mary Lou contributed). I got lucky, I guess – or maybe unlucky, depending on how you look at it. My nightmare was singular: that I woke up one morning and found her gone; that her father had come while I slept or showered or checked my email and, with the knowledge and stealth that would make taking her entirely possible, she'd be gone before I knew it had happened.

And now here he was telling me he wants Phoebe.

"No." It's all I can manage right now so I pack everything I can into it. My voice is low and shaky…come to think of it, _I'm_ pretty shaky myself. Bobby doesn't open his eyes so I repeat myself, louder this time, with more force, as though by sheer will I can undo whatever shift has caused this. "Not happening. Forget it, Brown. Go get your jollies by fucking with someone else's head for once."

That seems to snap him out of whatever turmoil he was caught up in because he opens his eyes. He looks stricken and recoils a bit. I can see that my words cut him and frankly, I couldn't care less. I have the fleeting thought that maybe, if I wound him deeply enough, he'll go and leave us alone.

"I know," he begins before I can, "that I'm probably your least favorite person right now, but Steph… I just can't do it. I mean, I thought maybe I should, you know?"

I cut him off. "Go with that. Ranger always said you had good instincts."

He sighs and raises a hand to pull on his earlobe, and it's just enough of a distraction that my next assault dies in my throat. Phoebe does the same thing when she's upset; seeing Bobby do it hurts the part of my heart that wishes she had a father. He has no way of knowing it, but Bobby Brown just bought himself another few seconds of air time.

"I can't. I just…I can't explain it the right way because everything I say sounds…trite –" I interrupt him with a snort and a huge eye roll, but he presses on. "But I can't just walk away from her now, after I've seen her."

This knocks me for a loop. "When did you see her?" I'm not curious, I am _pissed_. Who let him near Phoebe after I explicitly forbade it?

Sheepishly, he pulls his wallet from his back pocket and slides a photograph out and across the table to me. I snatch it up and growl – _fucking Ranger!_

"She looks like me," he whispers, and I'm pulled back from plotting Ranger's slow death. I'm mad, I'm so mad that things are going a little blurry around the edges and I know I've got to get away from him soon before I have a stroke or commit homicide.

"That's what happens when you donate sperm to make a baby – and let's face it, Bobby, that's all you are. A sperm donor." He looks hurt, like he can't believe I'd say such a thing to him, but I know I've got seconds before I lose control of myself so I hurry on. My breathing is coming in short gasps now and I can feel myself getting hotter by the second. "Phoebe is not a toy you set on a shelf until you're ready to take her down and dust her off for a quick play session. She's a human being. Do you know, statistically, how hard I'm going to have to work to get past the whole bi-racial, unmarried single mother, no father stigma that she's already facing? Add 'absentee annual visit dad' to the mix and I may as well teach her to walk in stripper heels! No. The answer is no, you can't…you can't…"

Suddenly, I can't get enough air into my lungs. My chest heaves and I see Bobby, startled, jump to his feet and try to pull me to mine but I just can't seem to feel my legs. I know he's shouting something by the cords bulging in his neck as he turns his head to direct the waitress but the rushing in my ears keeps me from hearing it. Sweat pours down my neck, my body heaves and I fall into black oblivion.

* * *

 _ **reviews and chatty dialogue are greatly loved and read multiple times**_


	5. Chapter 5

_This chapter reads a little choppy, and for that I apologize – I'm reading 'Where the Red Fern Grows' with my 9 year old and I can't get Wilson Rawls' staccato writing style out of my head. We've got 5 chapters to go, so hopefully my next installment will flow better!_

* * *

 **BPOV**

I sigh and rub the back of my neck, thinking for the hundredth time how fucked up this day turned out to be. I obviously didn't think Steph would be thrilled when I told her I wasn't willing to sign the paperwork she'd had drawn up, nor did I think she'd agree right away, but I _never_ thought she'd have an anxiety attack over it.

Helen Fuld's ER waiting room hasn't changed at all in the months I've been away; in fact, I'm pretty sure the same stale PopTarts are sitting in the same spot of the vending machines. The thing that _has_ changed is that I'm on this side of the swinging double doors; normally, any Rangeman in an ER room would allow me back with them, but I was told in no uncertain terms that I wasn't welcome in the back with Stephanie…and from the mutinous glares coming my way from the sea of black waiting on the opposite side of the room, I'm fairly certain that her wishes will be enforced over my dead body if need be.

It takes an age, but finally the doors swing open and a stone-faced Ranger walks out followed by a grinning Lester. I can't decide which to focus on and I know, I just know if I'm the first to ask for a report it'll start a fight so I hold my breath and wait.

Tank is the first to speak. "Well?" he booms, succinct as ever.

Ranger grimaces before he says, "She's fine. It was an anxiety attack, which was what Bobby thought, but she's already back to yelling and bossing people around – "

Les interrupts him amid the collective relieved sigh that goes up in the waiting room. "He's just mad because Beautiful handed him his ass back there!" He's gleeful, teasing Ranger in front of the men, and I feel my tension drain away – surely, she's okay if Les is joking about it.

He continues, crowing, "She. Was. PISSED at Boss Man! She told him – " Ranger throws a quick elbow to Lester's gut, silencing him, before continuing his speech.

"She'll be released in the morning, pending a second set of test results. I don't have to tell you all that she is not happy about this. She's free to receive visitors, two at a time, if anyone wants to go back and try and talk some sense into her." Ranger has avoided looking at me this entire time, a fact that I'm thankful for. It's best for me to fly under the radar at the moment, and I know the majority of the men are just waiting for an opening to lay into me since it's my fault Steph is in here in the first place. For now, I'm content to blend in with the background.

The men turn toward each other, mumbling and playing games of 'rock, paper, scissors' to determine the order they'll go back to visit Stephanie in. I take a moment to sink into the chair and just breath; I've been sitting here for two hours waiting for word of her prognosis, and while the news is good, I don't feel any abatement of guilt or responsibility. If anything, the fact that I know she's well and doesn't want to see me makes it a bit worse.

Ranger makes his way over to me and sits next to me without saying anything. For a few minutes, it's nice to feel his silent support; I've missed it more than I realized. I feel bad all over, like my soul is sore and battered, and I have no idea how to dig myself out of the my self-made Hell.

Ranger waits, strategically (and isn't everything he does strategic?) until the men are good and busy to speak.

"She's fine, Brown. Mad enough to spit fire but she'll be okay." He smiles that Ranger smile, the one that barely lifts a corner of his mouth and speaks of his amusement, and says, "She threw an empty pitcher at me for giving you the picture of Phee, and told me that if I don't make you sign the custody papers she's going to shoot me with my own gun. That's not a woman who's on the brink of death; she's not even sick enough to quit yelling at me. She'll be okay."

I nod, the medic in me knowing what he's saying is true, but I'm still wrecked from this. It's completely my fault, and I'm so damn sorry for it, for _all_ of it that I'm wallowing in the guilt of it all. I'm so deep in it that I don't hear Les approach, and when he speaks I jump.

"Heading out, Boss Man," he says, avoiding looking at me. "I told Steph I'd be here for the 9am shift change to sign her out and bring her home so I'm going to switch shifts with Angus."

I speak before thinking. "What about Phoebe?"

I know by the way Les snaps his head around and glares at me that this isn't going to be pretty.

"Don't worry, Superdad," he sneers, not bothering to hide his contempt, "I'll take care of your daughter, just like I have been since before she was born. If you've got a problem with that we can talk about it on the mats." He stands, challenging me with his stiff posture, but it's not necessary; I know what he's saying is the truth. So I just nod and wait for him to turn and leave, which he does after a moment. Ranger sits silently, taking in the exchange but not commenting. I give Les a few minutes head start before I get up and quietly make my way to my car. Ranger doesn't follow me, a small blessing I take a moment to be thankful for. I really just want to be alone.

I drive aimlessly around Trenton, reacquainting myself with the urban sprawl I left behind. Not much has changed; in the bad parts of town, a few liquor stores have changed ownership and the gang boundaries have migrated a bit, but all in all, it's still Trenton. How so much could've changed in my life while the world went on about its humdrum business is a welcome diversion from my sour thoughts, and I muse over it for a few miles before reluctantly getting back to the task at hand.

Stephanie. Phoebe. Les. And apparently, the entirety of Rangeman Trenton at large. Tank and Ranger have shown a quiet kind of encouragement, but the lot of them want me gone…with the possible exception of Phoebe, and that's what gives me pause.

Is it like Steph says? Will Phoebe, the tiny baby who looks like me and has never laid eyes on me, be hurt more by my presence than my absence? And say I do stay around and we develop a normal father/daughter relationship…how will I explain my absence from her life at its beginning? Will she reject me once she learns how despicably I've behaved?

These are the questions I consider and I jump on I-95 and head south, mashing the pedal to the floor, flying almost fast enough to escape my demons.

 **SPOV**

I'm grouchy by the time Lester comes to spring me from the hospital, a notable improvement from the 'heinous bitch' description I'd heard an orderly mutter to a nurse in passing. I want to get back to my life, but mostly, I miss my daughter. I can't wait to see her, and I'm more than a little bummed that Les showed up without her.

"Couldn't be helped, Beautiful," he says, shooting me his patented panty-dropping smile and winking at the candy striper who is helping me into my shoes. She squeaks and falls back onto her ass. I just roll my eyes and finish the job myself. I'm averse to Lester by now. Well…mostly. I'd never let him know otherwise, but I'm a heterosexual woman with a pulse – I'm not immune but I've built up a good tolerance to him.

He continues, "Phoebe was sleeping hard when I left; she had a little trouble getting back to sleep when she woke up late last night." This brings on a fresh wave of anxiety, which Les sees and does his best to squash. "She wasn't upset, but she knows how to play Uncle Les – she woke up and saw that I was the adult in charge so she wanted to play. I tried to say no but she called my bluff." He shows me (with no little amount of pride) the picture he snapped in the wee hours of the morning of he and Phoebe putting on makeup together. It's just what I need to snap me out of my funk.

I hop up and scowl at the wheelchair the candy-striper parked in my room, bypassing it to hurry toward the exit with Les hot on my heels. I've got my list of instructions for recovery, I've signed my forms, I've spoken to the doctor, but none of these things will calm and soothe me the way squeezing my baby to my chest will. I can't wait to see her.

As soon as we exit the lot, I ask Les the question that's been maintaining prime real estate in my thoughts these days: "Where's Bobby?"

Les scowls at the mention of his name. Of all my friends (and I've discovered in the last year that I have a gracious plenty of them), Lester's anger with Bobby was the deepest held. I think he felt the same betrayal as me on some level – when Bobby and I were a couple, he shared a few of his Les stories he wasn't legally obligated to keep secret with me. I knew the two were close, closer than Ranger and Tank in some ways, so when Bobby cut out it affected Les in a way I was too upset to see at the time. I know he still feels some guilt over the fact that he refused, at first, to believe that Bobby had left me. He argued with anyone who stated otherwise that Bobby'd had a momentary freak out over the news of my pregnancy, but that he'd be back. Lester Santos was nothing if not loyal, and he'd been Bobby's other half long before I fancied that title might one day belong to me. Gradually, as time wore on and Bobby didn't return anyone's phone calls, text messages, or emails, Lester's faith in his partner had dimmed. Nowadays, it seemed that he'd replaced it with contempt. I think that residual guilt is a large part of the reason he's so involved with Phoebe. He's been by my side every step of my pregnancy, he was in the delivery room when Phee was born, and he'd cried like a baby when I gave Phoebe his middle name as her own in honor of him. In some ways, I think he felt Bobby's absence even more acutely than I did.

"Hopefully half way to Atlanta," he grumbled, signaling to exit the highway at the Trenton exit.

I can only huff and roll my eyes; I have never, in my life, been that lucky. I share the thought with Les and add, "Did anyone see him after they loaded me in the ambulance? I don't remember much after I collapsed at Brenda's."

A look of irritation clouds his face for a moment before he grumbles his answer. "He rode with you."

This surprises me…but then, it doesn't. The Bobby of my memories would never have dreamt of letting me ride alone to the hospital. But I don't know this Bobby, the one who left me alone for so long, so I stand on unsteady ground in terms of expectations.

I don't know why I ask the next question, but it's word vomit – out of my mouth before I can process it. "Did he wait to hear my prognosis?" The answer to this means something, I know it does, but I cannot – or will not – let myself consider what.

Lester's answer is clipped and irritated, though his ire isn't directed at me. "Yeah. He was there when we arrived just behind you and was still there when we updated the guys."

I take a minute to process that, and I really can't. I don't know what to make of it – like I said, this isn't my Bobby. I feel adrift, looking for something, some tool or sign to help me translate his actions. I decide to allow myself one more question, knowing that if I don't ask this it will eat at me until I know the answer.

"Did he say anything else? Before he left or you did, I mean?"

With a growl that conveyed his anger, Lester says, almost conspiratorially, "He asked about Phoebe, as in who would take care of her while you were in the hospital. Fucker. He's not been worried about who was taking care of her all these months, and now…."

My brain kind of short-circuits and lose track of what he's saying as I try and make sense of this information. I try to squash the flare of panic this news brings and remember the calming techniques my doctor recommended I try if I feel myself start to panic. And I try desperately to smother the small bit of me that warms at the thought that he was concerned for my baby's well-being.

It's not hard to do since we're pulling into the driveway of the tiny cottage-style house I bought in my seventh month of pregnancy from a realtor who was a 'friend' of Lester's. I'm almost positive the great deal I got on it was because of the 'great deal' Les was giving to the pretty realtor, but I was so desperate for a home to bring my baby to and grateful for the help I didn't ask.

Ella steps out the front door with my baby in her arms and all my troubled thoughts are gone; there is no room for them, not when Phoebe is with me. I'm absolutely soggy with glee by the time I reach her and her tiny chubby arms reach for me, her little body wriggly with delight. I pull her to my chest and breathe deeply for the first time in a day; _this_ is my peace, my home, my happiness, all wrapped up in 18 pounds of delicious, beautiful baby girl. This is what I can't let Bobby steal from me, it's clear as day to me now – he took my happiness and joy when he left me the first time. I absolutely cannot let him do it a second time.

I invite Ella and Les to stay but they make noises about having things to do at Rangeman, and though I'm hugely grateful for the help they so lovingly give, I can't deny that holing up alone in my home with my daughter is exactly what I need right now. Phoebe and I give hugs (me) and slobbery kisses (Phee) and wave goodbye to them as they roll down my driveway, then head inside to soak up each other's company.

It's later that night, when I hear an unexpected knock, when the peace I've found in my seclusion is threatened.

I'm the first to admit, I have a history of being lackadaisical about my safety; now that I'm a mother, nothing could be further from the truth. Ranger also insisted on installing Rangeman's top-of-the-line home security system as a house warming present; Single Stephanie would've balked. New Mom On Her Own Stephanie accepted and asked for extra target practice.

I use the video monitoring system to see who my visitor is, and I'm not surprised at what I find. With a groan, I walk to the door, unbolt it, and swing it inward.

"Well, well, if it isn't my errant baby-daddy. What brings you here?" I ask, trying mightily to sound uninterested and like my life's happiness doesn't hinge on his answer.

Bobby sighs and kicks his foot at an invisible rock on my porch. He looks tired…scratch that, he looks like hammered shit. I hope with every fiber of my being that this is his goodbye before he heads back to Atlanta, but like I've always said…my luck's not that great.

"Can we talk for a minute? Out here, if that's where you're comfortable…unless you can't leave the baby?" He does little to hide the upward lilt in his voice at the end, clearly hoping that Phee is up and he'll be able to see her. Fuck. This does not bode well for my fantasy that Bobby pulls a reverse Scarlett O'Hara and flees toward Atlanta.

With a resigned sigh, I shake my head and step out onto the porch. With a bit of luck and a little reasoning, there may be a chance I can get him to see reason tonight. It's worth a shot.

Silently, we shuffle toward the swinging bench Les hung for me after Phoebe was born and sit. I wait for him to begin, praying silently we can end this tonight and I can move on with my life.

"I'm really, really sorry that I upset you at the diner," he begins, shooting me a guilty look. "It was never my intention to do that; I had no idea it would trigger a panic attack. Steph," he turns toward me, his face earnest, "I have so much to apologize for, but I know the words don't mean anything to you, not anymore. I realized that today…and yesterday, actually. I left the hospital after Ranger told everyone you'd have to stay overnight for monitoring and I drove around. I meant to stay in Trenton, just to clear my head, but I wound up in Virginia Beach." He smiles, but there is no joy in it. "I sat on the beach through the night and just…thought. About all of it, everything, and I came to some conclusions. If you'll let me," he looks at me, beseechingly, pleadingly, "I'd like to tell you the conclusions I reached."

I can only nod; if this is a means to an end, I'll sit through whatever he needs to unburden himself of.

Encouraged, he offers me the tiniest of smiles and begins. "I realized that my word is worth shit to you. Scratch that; it's worth less than that. I know," he continues, dropping his chin shamefully to his chest, "how terrible me leaving here made you feel….I can't even imagine. You don't want my apology, I know that – so I won't tell you how sorry I am." He looks at me, his eyes bright with determination, his jaw set in a hard line. "I'm going to _show_ you. It's the only way, I see that now."

It takes a minute for my brain to catch up to what's going on here, and when it does, I groan and shut my eyes. I know what this is, and I have no intention of feeding these flames. I sit upright to set him straight.

"I don't need – or want – some grand gesture," I say firmly. All the peace I'd spent the last half of my day soaking up was keeping me surprisingly calm. "All I want is my daughter. That's it." I force myself to grit out the next part. "I can…appreciate…that you feel the urge to step in now, but it's not necessary."

He interrupts me. "Steph, I have an obligation to her, to provide for her at least."

"I am absolving you of your obligation." I'm seething that he called Phoebe an 'obligation', but addressing it won't resolve this so I press on. "Just go back to Atlanta and let us get on with the lives we were living, _peacefully and happily_ , before you came back here."

He just looks at me calmly and speaks. "I was in Atlanta hiding from something. I thought, when I left, that it might be permanent. But Steph," he leans forward, his voice now earnest, "I knew it wasn't right. You see, I realized that it made me a coward. I could have stayed there, made a life there, but it was _wrong_. It took me far too long to realize that. When I came back, it was made clear to me I wasn't welcome anymore, and I know I deserve that. But this is my chance to work on making it up to you and to Phoebe and I'm going to take it."

I ignore the surge of pain through my fingertips when I hear him say Phee's name and shake my head, striving to maintain my calm. "What chance?! I'm not giving you anything, Brown. Forget it. Just put it out of your mind."

He only smiles and says, "Surrender is not a Ranger word."

He stands and wishes me a good evening before removing himself from my porch, leaving me more confused and frustrated than ever.

* * *

 _self-indulgent author's note: 'Surrender is not a Ranger word' is part of the Army Ranger creed._

 _I also wanted to add that my spring semester has started, so my weekly update schedule may be delayed. Keep the faith and drop me a line!_


	6. Chapter 6

**SPOV**

I sigh and roll my neck in relief; my little nugget is getting heavy. It's a relief to finally put her in her crib for her nap, and I'm briefly nostalgic for the days when I could cradle her in one arm. I shut the door softly and head back to my kitchen and my friend.

Mary Lou is over today for some much-needed girl time; I've been so busy with Phoebe and work that I haven't had much of a chance to see her, so she brought her manicure kit and polishes so we could play and drink coffee and gossip.

With Phoebe awake, we kept it light; my little girl is sweet but sensitive and picks up on stress like a homing pigeon to its perch. It is no surprise that Mary Lou pounces as soon as my ass hits the chair.

"So? What's going on with Bobby being back in town? Your phone rang while you were putting Phoebe down, by the way, and the caller I.D. said 'Richard Cranium'; I thought you had him saved in your phone as Dick Head?"

I smile with no humor. "I did but he called once while I was at my parent's house and my mom nearly had a heart attack over it. This is my covert rebellion." I pick a pretty lilac shade for my fingers and hand it over to Mary Lou so she can begin.

"So he's been calling a lot, then?" she asks, head bent to the task. I'm not much for gossip, probably because I spent so long as the topic of it, but ML is different. I have no fear that she'll spread my personal business all over Chambersburg…and if I'm honest, it's nice to have someone listen to me and just _support_ me without immediately attacking Bobby the way the guys at work tend to. Not that I don't generally agree with what's being said, but being around all that venom and anger isn't good for my own anger control.

I nod and watch as she expertly files down the rough edges of my fingernails. "Two or three times a week, without fail, since the day after I had the panic attack."

Mary Lou lets out a nondescript hum and nods for me to continue. "It bothered me a lot at first but now I think I'm kind of used to it. I answered a few times and went off on him but it didn't stop him from calling a few days later. I decided to conserve my energy and just not answer."

Mary Lou glances up at me and asks, "What does he want, when he calls?"

And therein lies the rub. He doesn't _want_ anything; it'd be easier to hold onto my anger if he did. I sigh and say, "He just asks if I need anything and offers to help with Phoebe after he runs through his schedule and tells me when he's available; it's the same message, every time. Like, normal co-parenting stuff, I guess. I mean, I don't really know if that's normal or not but that's what he says. He's tireless with it, always sounds…not happy, but not bummed. Just like it's a normal, run-of-the-mill message."

ML frowns a bit and says, "And he does this, what did you say? Two or three times a week for how long now?"

I snort and roll my eyes. "Like six or seven weeks, I think? You'd figure he would get the hint and give up! He doesn't even sound mad that I don't answer my phone anymore on his messages…here, listen." I pick up my cell phone and play the voice message he just left on speaker for her. Bobby's disembodied voice fills the space.

" _Hey, Stephanie, it's Bobby – I just wanted to check in and see how you two are doing. Do you need anything, diapers, clothes, stuff like that? Let me know. I'm working the evening shift the next two days but I'll be free in the afternoons, so let me know if you need any help with Phoebe. Bye."_

I end the call and scowl down at my nails. "He turned down the job Ranger offered him in Atlanta, did I tell you that? So he's staying here for the foreseeable future." I was supremely pissed when I heard that news from Ranger himself. "It's like he wants to just pretend nothing ever happened so we can play Happy Family. It's insulting."

Mary Lou doesn't lift her eyes to mine when she speaks. "Maybe he's just trying to show you that he's not going anywhere this time. He's showing consistency to prove he's not going to rabbit."

I'm shocked and, I confess, a little hurt at Mary Lou's statement. "You're _defending_ him?!" I know I sound accusatory, but I can't help it. Mary Lou is my oldest friend; she's supposed to hate the people I hate on principle. Joyce Barnhardt had never done a thing to Mary Lou Stankovich but ML had sworn a blood oath to destroy her because she'd helped ruin my marriage to Dickie. That's just what a best friend does.

Mary Lou slowly replaces the brush into the polish jar before she lifts her head and looks me straight in the eye, and I can tell by the look on her face that she's about to lay down something I might not want to pick up. She reaches across the table and rests her hand on my forearm before speaking.

"Steph, you _know_ that I love you. You've exceeded every expectation anyone's ever had of you, and you're strong, my God, are you strong!" Here she smiles and squeezes me before continuing. "Motherhood is scary, even with a partner, and you've done such a wonderful job with that little girl, you truly have, Steph. And I know what Bobby leaving did to you." Her voice is grave, and I know why – I leaned on ML pretty heavily in the days after Bobby left me, and again after Phoebe was born. She saw me at my lowest, my most raw; when I couldn't fathom how I was going to be a mother, on my own, when I could barely take care of myself some days.

So I breathe and remind myself that Mary Lou loves me, and I force myself to listen to her. "The thing is, even though he doesn't deserve it, I think you're going to have to let Bobby meet Phoebe."

I sort of knew where she was going with this conversation, but it doesn't make hearing it any easier. I feel vulnerable, judged, and alone right now, and I don't know how to respond or proceed. Mary Lou, because she's known me my whole life, understands this immediately and slides her chair closer to mine.

"If this was just about you and Bobby," she says, "we'd shun the rat bastard after we set something he loves on fire." We share a smile, and I know we're both picturing The Dick's business suits in flames on my lawn after I caught him with Barnyard. "But Steph, this isn't just you and Bobby – you're a mother now. You've always put Phoebe first, even when it's been really, really hard. That's what being a parent is. You did it when you found out you were pregnant, and Bobby didn't. But he's trying now and I think you owe it to Phoebe to give him a chance to be part of her life."

I shake my head; I'm a bit upset by the way this conversation has veered. I thought, of all people, Lou would get it because she's a mother and a great one, at that.

So, I try to explain it. "The only thing I owe to Phoebe is to be the best mother I can and to protect her from things that could hurt her. Her father abandoning her hurt her, Lou; how do you not see that?" It seems so obvious to me; how does she not get it?

"Bobby leaving hurt _you_ , Steph." The words are harsh but her tone is loving; still, I can't help the gasp that flies out of my mouth. She presses onward, squeezing my arm again. "And it makes him a bastard and you have every right to resent him for it, but you can't use that as the reason to keep him out of Phoebe's life. She'll resent you for it some day if you do."

"I'm resenting _you_ right now," I mumble.

Mary Lou just smiles and pats me in a very motherly way and says, "Of course you do. I'm telling you something you don't want to hear, but Steph…you need to hear it. I think waiting to make sure he was serious about being in her life was a good thing, but at some point you need to take a leap of faith. You can't tell your daughter she wasn't allowed to have a father because there was a chance she might have been hurt by it. That's not something she'll understand, sweetie, and I think you know it."

"So, what?" I snap at her. I'm seething and stewing and I don't want to consider what she's saying might have some validity. "I'm just supposed to hand over my baby to a guy who's never even met her and say, 'here ya go, happy parenting!'? He didn't _want_ her, Lou! How do I get past that?"

Mary Lou is calm as a Hindu cow when she answers without missing a beat. "You realize that he fucked up. Then you realize that you will fuck up, too, because as much as you love that little girl and as hard as you try not to, you're going to mess things up somewhere down the line, and you are going to want your daughter to remember that mistakes are something to be worked through and not something that is unforgivable. You have to teach your daughter that sometimes, love means forgiveness even when it's not deserved." Then she stands, hugs me so tight I still feel it a half-hour later and asks if I want a refill on my coffee. I nod, a bit numb from her speech, and we drift back to a more comfortable topic.

After she's gone and Phoebe is awake, I pull out Phee's blocks and build tower after tower that she takes great joy in knocking down. Her little giggle always makes me laugh along with her, and the thought occurs to me that her father has never heard this precious baby laugh. Tonight, instead of these thoughts making me angry, I feel sad and sorry for Bobby. I think about what Mary Lou said, about mistakes and forgiveness, and I wonder for the first time if I'm teaching Phoebe the wrong lesson by trying to protect her. I remain deep in my thoughts the rest of the evening.

 **BPOV**

I stick my head beneath the spray of my shower and slough the day's grime off of me. It's been a tough one and I'm very glad to see the tail end of it. I send a silent thanks to Manny for moving in with his girlfriend and out of the Rangeman apartment he occupied; that medical suite offered little in the way of comfort and I was glad to leave it.

Being back on rotations now that I'm officially staying in Trenton has had more downs than ups. The only person who hasn't complained about being partnered with me, oddly enough, is Angus. I don't think it's the result of any endearment; rather, he's just too focused on the job to care about the fluff. In a few weeks, Bones will be back in class part-time, leaving my medical suite and the care of Rangeman Trenton in my hands once again. It's slow going but I feel like the men are at least resigned to my presence. I just have to keep plodding along and going at it and one day, it'll be better. This has become my mantra each day, and this will continue to keep me moving forward; this is my hope. If I fall, if I stagnate, I don't think I'll have the willpower to start again. And so, I tuck my head down and move forward and pretend like the crushing loneliness that is my existence now is tolerable and I hope for a better tomorrow.

I make my way into the kitchen, intending to grab something quick and head to bed. I pull an easy chicken and rice casserole from the fridge and pop it into the oven, then turn the TV on. The noise helps mask how isolated it feels in my apartment right now. Hell, it helps mask how isolated my _life_ feels right now.

On a whim, I grab my cell phone to check for calls or messages. I haven't had much if any social interaction with the guys, and the only calls I get are from Kevin at Mastercard offering me a lower APR if I sign up for a rewards program.

Lo and behold, there's a text message waiting for me. That in itself is a surprise, but I nearly drop the phone when I see that the sender is Stephanie. The content of the message forces me to sit, hard, on my couch.

 _I'm installing alarms with Hector tomorrow. Phoebe will be with Ella from 10-3; if you'd like to stop by Ella's apartment, that's fine with me. I've let Ella know._

And just like that, with 3 short sentences, my entire world shifts on its axis and life is looking pretty goddamn terrific again.


	7. Chapter 7

_Gratuitous author's note: This has taken a bit longer than the other chapters, and for that I apologize - I'm experiencing a career renaissance and I'm back in school full-time in the nursing program. I am extremely gratified to get the notes you beautiful people drop me - I've even gotten a few from my favorite JE Fanfic author, CyborgWithGreatHair, which was pretty bitchin'. While I'm poking along writing chapter 8, go occupy yourself with her library!_

* * *

 **SPOV**

I shift Phoebe's diaper bag behind my hip and rap my fist against Ella's door, while I blow out an exasperated breath. Since I've had Phee, I've gotten used to this feeling, the one where you're running late and inconveniencing other people…except today, for once, I'm early.

This is further confirmed when Ella opens her door with her brow furrowed, reflexively reaching out to take Phoebe from me. "Mija!" she exclaims, glancing over her shoulder at the clock hanging on the wall near the kitchen. "I am so sorry, I must have forgotten the time!"

I smile wearily at her and let her usher me inside. "You didn't forget, Ella, it's me who should apologize – I'm early." When she only looks at me blankly, I sigh and add, "And I'm a chicken. I'm early and I'm a chicken. I want to be gone by the time Bobby gets here." I duck my head, avoiding her eyes and busy myself with unpacking Phee's morning snack from the diaper bag.

"You don't want to be here to introduce them?" she asks, surprise causing her voice to lilt at the end. I sigh and, out of nowhere, tears fill my eyes. I gasp back a sob and brush them away, hurriedly, before they start to fall. A dull panic sets in when I inadvertently remember the early days of crying over Bobby, and how endless and hopeless everything seemed. I shake my head, trying to fling the memories out, away from me, and calm only when Ella lays a motherly hand on my shoulder to sooth me.

"It is okay to feel confused, Stephanie," she murmurs, expertly bouncing Phoebe in her arm while patting me. "It is a hard situation to navigate." Ella smiles and glances at Phoebe, her face morphing the way it always does when she holds my baby girl. "I think it is the right thing, them meeting, and Luis and I prayed that you will find peace with your decision."

I smile at her, and I know it's weak but it's all I can give at the moment. Ella understands because Ella _always_ understands. She passes Phoebe back to me so I can say my goodbyes before I join Hector for the day.

I close my eyes and lean in, breathing her special baby smell, and my heart clenches the way it always does when I'm soaking in my daughter. I kiss the top of her head and smoosh down her sweet curls with my cheek as I whisper sweet nothings to her and sway gently. She seems to know that today is hard for me, and instead of the usual indignant squirming to get more breathing room she curls her tiny body into mine and lets me have my moment.

I close my eyes and whisper, "You're going to meet someone special today, baby girl. Mommy can't be here but _Tia_ will and it's all going to be just…fine. You'll see." I swallow past the lump in my throat and hand Phoebe back over to Ella, press one last kiss onto her sweet face and hurry toward the elevators to make my way to the basement.

I stretch my back, wincing as I feel it shift back into alignment and groan in relief. Hector chuckles and says, "Feels good, no?" in thickly accented English. I flip him off and he just laughs at me. Once upon a time Hector scared pants off me; now, he's one of my favorite Rangemen. He's probably the only one that could've made today tolerable; alarm installation is hot, dusty, and dull work, but Hector makes it interesting. The language barrier proved a hurdle the first time we went out, until Hector methodically taught me all the swear words in Spanish. That definitely cemented our friendship.

We finish unloading the equipment and I wave to him as the elevator doors slide shut and whisk me upstairs toward my daughter. I'm grateful for today and the distraction it provided; I was up and down all night, anxious about today, wondering if I'd made the right call and second guessing my decision. Now that it's over and done with, I just want to see Phoebe and get a report from Ella.

I let myself into the apartment Ella and Louis share on the 6th floor as is our custom in the afternoons, a smile on my face, ready to be greeted by a squealing, slobbering baby, and I'm a bit taken aback by what greets me.

Bobby is sitting in the middle of Ella's living room floor, a shape sorting bucket on the floor between him and Phoebe. Around her, he has stacked every. single. throw pillow Ella owns, each one situated so that there's no possible chance that Phoebe will touch the floor if she tips over. I've had Phoebe around the guys since she was born so I've gotten desensitized to the things grown men who've never been around babies think are necessary safety precautions, but this just strikes my funny bone and I laugh out loud before I catch myself.

With that laugh I out myself, and two nearly identical faces swing toward me in unison. Two smiles greet me, and though I do my best to focus on the toothless one, I am somewhat gratified to find Bobby in a happy mood after having spent the day with my daughter.

I walk over to the pillow circle and navigate through them, leaning down to scoop my girl up and chuckling over the absurdity of it all. I'm trying, really trying not to seem anxious or obvious as I give Phoebe a quick once-over to check and make sure she's whole and well. I know, of course I do, that Bobby wouldn't harm her, and I'm a little ashamed that I need to do this but have to assuage that nagging mom gene in me that never totally shuts off. She is, of course, perfectly fine.

Bobby only smiles through my little inspection before scooping all the blocks into their bucket and straightening up. He clears his throat and shifts his weight to the balls of his feet and back to his heels, and it occurs to me that Bobby Brown is nervous around me now. I file that tidbit away for future examination.

He clears his throat and tugs on his ear, the nervous tick he shares with my daughter, and scoots around us toward Phoebe's diaper bag, which he starts to repack for me. Ella and Luis are conspicuously absent and I have little doubt it is intentional on their part.

Bobby must've shored up his courage because he swings back around rather jerkily and says to me, "Steph, thank you for today – you didn't have to let me spend the time with her. I appreciate it, more than I can tell you." He smiles to himself, and I know it's not a smile meant for me; he's smiling to himself, undoubtedly at some memory from his day with Phoebe. "She's a pretty terrific kid."

I push away the bad thoughts, the snipey ones that harass me and try to remind me that I _know_ she's a terrific kid because I've spent every day of her life caring for her, but I swallow it. I don't want to be that Stephanie anymore, the one who marinades in her own bitter thoughts, so I just smile and nod in agreement; truly, it's not as hard to do as it seems at first.

I ask after Ella, and Bobby tells me she and Luis took the opportunity to take inventory after making sure he was comfortable being alone with Phoebe. I nod my understanding and gesture toward the door; I've said all I need to say to him, and really, by this point…I could use some distance. I need some time to reflect on today now that it's over with.

He holds it open for me and silently leads the way to the elevator.

"Are you two headed home now?" he asks, smiling at Phoebe and chucking her cheek. Phoebe, bless her, is wholly unaware of the awkwardness of the situation and cheerfully blows her best raspberry at her father.

"Mmm," I hum in agreement and step onto the elevator. He follows and rocks from the balls of his feet to his heels, back and forth, anxiously rubbing sweaty palms on his jeans. I sigh; I know, whatever's coming, I'm probably not going to like. I decide to shoot for levity; if I can salvage this day, I'm going to. I've made it this far with no major freak outs, I'm in an enclosed space with Bobby Brown and there hasn't been a drop of blood shed… if that's not personal growth I couldn't tell you what is.

"Spit it out, Brown." My tone is friendly enough, I think, but I shoot a warning glance at him. I may have come a long way but I'm still Stephanie Plum.

He squares his shoulders and forces out, "I want you to let me start paying child support," all in a rush. I shake my head immediately and open my mouth to object but he beats me to it. "I know you've got it, I know you've been taking care of her…well, everything, since before she was born," he has the decency to look ashamed at this but he continues, "but Steph, it's only right. It's _fair_. I haven't been fair to either of you; please, let me do this. Let me do _something._ "

The elevator doors whoosh open then, presenting to us Rangeman's underground garage and Lester Santos, waiting for the elevator.

Well, shit.


	8. Chapter 8

**BPOV**

 _Could've gone worse_ , I think to myself as I let myself into my apartment. I sigh and drop my keys on the small sideboard and stretch my neck, thinking about the confrontation I just narrowly avoided in the garage basement.

Phoebe was my saving grace. Lester was wound up when he saw me with Steph and the baby, that much was obvious, but he'd gritted his teeth and shot me a murderous look before dropping a kiss on Phoebe's head and waiting pointedly for me to leave. Stephanie had a deer in headlights glaze on her face, and Phoebe had happily blown raspberries, unaware of the tension swirling around her.

And with that thought, the goofy smile I've been sporting all day comes back. Phoebe. God, she's cute as hell – I had no idea it would be like this. How could I? I haven't let myself be around any infants since my teenage years in foster care. I've avoided them like the plague since.

But being around her, around this tiny perfect little person who has my dimple and my ears and Stephanie's eyes…it slays me. I feel elated and terrified at the same time, pride and guilt battling for dominance every time her eyes would meet mine and crinkle with joy. I felt it then, that thing everyone always told me I would feel when I mentioned never wanting to have kids, and now all I can think about is beautiful, precious Phoebe and making sure she's well taken care of.

I realize, of course, that my conversation with Stephanie about establishing some sort of financial support for Phoebe was cut short, but I'm determined to provide for her; I'd provide for them both if I thought I had a shot in Hell of getting Stephanie Plum to accept anything from me. God knows I can afford to do it and she deserves to have some of the burden eased.

I consider my options in the shower – I can broach the subject again, but I doubt she'd be receptive. There's always a quiet electronic transfer…I shake my head. No, I can't do that. I think I've upset Steph quiet enough and I'm sure she won't take kindly to me depositing money into her account. There is one person who might be able to clue me in…

With great effort I swallow my pride and head down the hall to an apartment door that was once as welcoming as my own. I knock and stand in clear view of the peephole; I know without a doubt this is going to be an unpleasant conversation, but if any good came from my time in Georgia it's that I know unequivocally that avoiding problems only makes them worse.

When the door swings open and Lester's body fills the empty frame, I can tell how this is going to go by his posture. Still…it's for Phoebe and for Steph, so I forge ahead.

"I was hoping I could talk to you for a minute. It's about Stephanie and the baby," I say, quick as lightning. I hold no delusions about Lester hearing me out with any measure of civility, so I'm just hoping for brief and painless.

Lester's body is taut with anger, his face a mask of contempt. He regards me with nothing less than loathing, and I am not surprised at the surge of regret that makes my very fingertips ache; I'm reminded, once again, that Stephanie wasn't the only one I betrayed when I left Trenton.

When he speaks, his tone is mocking. "Sure, buddy, it's been awhile. I haven't seen you in, oh, little over a year now, isn't it?"

I volley back as quickly as I can, "There's nothing you can say to me that I won't agree with, Santos. There's no name you can call me that I'd argue against. I know I'm guilty and I know I'm damned for leaving them, but that doesn't change the fact that I'm here _now_ and I can help Stephanie _now_. So are you going to tell me how I can do that or not?"

I seriously doubt anything I said affected him, but it did take a bit of the wind from his sails. He stood blank-faced and owl-eyed for a few moments before rolling his eyes and turning toward the interior of his apartment and walking toward his kitchen, leaving the door open. Cautiously, I follow.

With his back turned to me, he stirs something on his stovetop and says, "I think the best thing you can do for Stephanie is leave Trenton. She's got a life that she likes, she's doing okay on her own and the guys and I help her. You're just a reminder of everything you put her through." His voice lacks inflection, and I can't decide if that is more scalding than his anger.

I sag a little, leaning against his countertop and consider my next step; I know he's right, on some level. I also know that leaving is not an option, and I know that my life here will be a lot easier if I can at least coexist alongside Les since he's obviously become the man in Steph's life in my absence. If I want to be part of Phoebe's life, Lester is going to be part of that. Without thinking about it, I reach up and tug on my earlobe, my nervous tic, and Phoebe's.

Les picks that moment to glance over his shoulder and freezes for the smallest fraction of a minute and I swear, I see his hard features soften the smallest bit. He turns back to the stove and continues to silently stir his dinner. I sit, waiting, the life I want balancing on a knife's edge while Lester contemplates what to do next. Finally, he speaks.

"You can pay off her hospital bills from her pregnancy and the birth. She won't let me do it and threatened to crush Ranger's car with another dump truck if he tried to. I know she's been struggling with it. So…yeah."

I'm elated that he actually had a suggestion but I try to downplay it, keep him talking; plus, I'm a bit concerned.

"Rangeman insurance didn't cover her?"

Les snorted and rolls his shoulders. "If they did do you think she'd need help?" he snaps without looking at me. He shrugs and adds," I don't know the details. Something about the birth not being 'standard', whatever the fuck that means. And the fact that we're a company of men so the coverage for a pregnant employee was basic and preexisting by the time we tried to fix it. So."

I frown and debate pressing my luck with more questions, but it doesn't feel right. The details are probably something Stephanie doesn't want me to know at this point. So I straighten and step toward him, extending my hand to thank him.

Lester whirls, quicker than quick, and I barely have time to clench my muscles before he lands a solid punch to my gut. It's so low that I feel the pain spread through my balls and into my lower back; it's hard to hit a man in that exact spot, but he managed nicely.

Coughing and gagging, I fall to the floor, narrowly avoiding breaking my face on Lester's kitchen tile. He stands over me, his feet shoulder width apart, and doesn't move or speak. My eyes are watering and I'm drooling at this point; it's wholly unsettling, being so vulnerable and exposed, in a submissive position, at the feet of a man I know has the ability to end me right here. There's little I can do, however, besides try not to puke, so I just hold as still as possible and wait for the pain to abate.

It does after a bit, and I feel as weak as a newborn calf as I try to roll onto my knees so I can stand. Lester's hand appears in front of my face, and I take it without thinking. He pulls until I'm upright and hunched over, the edges still blurry from the slowly receding pain. I have to bend at the waist and prop myself up with my hands on my knees, groaning and powerless to keep my eyes watering from the pain, and I listen as he speaks.

"You deserved that and a lot more," he says quietly, and I can tell from his voice that he's glaring down at the back of my head. "If I had any say in it you'd spend the rest of your life in a 'stan, or maybe back in that fucking swamp in Louisiana you crawled out of; you deserve nothing less." At the mention of Louisiana, the hellhole I'd spent my formative years in, my stomach clenches in fear and I have to fight the urge to gag before he continues. "Fact is, it's Stephanie's call. She told me you spent the day with the baby in Ella's apartment, and that you've been trying to see Phoebe for a few months now; that's fine, until it's not fine. This is the only time you'll hear this from me – do not disappoint her again." The implied threat about what will happen if I do disappoint her is unmistakable.

I can only grunt in agreement before I turn and hobble back to my own apartment and fall into my bed.

* * *

 **SPOV**

I fly in a red haze into the garage at Haywood, and fury colors everything I see. _That motherfucker…._

I'm partnered with Vince today, and we were tasked with a few site visits to make sure all the security equipment is in good working order and to test the waters of customer satisfaction. Jennifer Landowski, who went to school with Valerie and is the twice-divorced owner of an antique shop we have an account with, was more interested in Vince's equipment than Rangeman's and spent a good ten minutes flirting and lobbing innuendo-filled chatter with him before I excused myself to go outside to make a couple of personal calls. That was when I found out that someone had settled my account at Helen Fuld, and a further two calls revealed that the name on the account of the person was none other than Robert Motherfucking Brown.

I'd stormed the gates of the antique shop, snatched my partner away from a scowling Jennifer Landowski and hauled ass back toward Haywood, screeching at Vince the entire way.

"Two weeks! It's been _two weeks_ since I let him start spending an afternoon here and there with Phoebe and he thinks he has some say in our lives now! I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN, Vince! That sonovabitch has SOME BALLS…" And so it had gone for a solid 5 minutes before I noticed Vince, ex-Army militant security expert, was cowering against the passenger door and trying to avoid eye contact with me. So I'd clammed up and tried to take a page out of Ranger's book, finishing the drive in silence and fuming while planning Bobby Brown's funeral.

I stomp on the brakes and jerk to a stop, my door open before the car is even in park. I make a mad dash for the stairwell and forego the elevator; there's no way I can stand still in that tiny box when there's a man I desperately need to throttle to death 6 stories up.

I burst out of the stairwell moments later, my rage fueling my trajectory and barrel toward Luis and Ella's door. I don't even bother to knock, I just shove the door open and storm in.

The apartment is quiet, the only sound coming from the machine that plays the synthesized raindrops that Phoebe falls asleep to at night. Bobby is holding her on the couch, a bottle held loosely in her lips, her eyelashes delicately kissing her round cheeks in slumber. Bobby's head is tipped backward, resting on the headrest, but my entrance is enough to make his head snap to attention and his eyes to scan the room for potential danger. He looks confused for only a few seconds before he interprets the anger on my face. He exhales the tiniest of breaths before laying down Phoebe's bottle and holding up a single finger. I grit my teeth and glare at him as he rises fluidly, my tiny daughter cradled in his arms and carries her down the hallway and into the bedroom where Ella has a portable crib set up. I brace myself, so mad I'm vibrating, and pace as I wait for him to return.

He comes, reluctantly, into the entryway of the apartment where I'm stalking in angry rows, and waits for me to speak.

"You have NO RIGHT to interfere in my life," I begin, and I am _itching_ to slap the shit out of him. "It is NOT your place to pay ANY of my bills, it's not even your business to know what bills I have! I don't need your help, I don't _want_ your help, we don't need _anything_ from you so you can just take your money back and stay out of my fucking business!" I am working desperately to keep my voice down so I don't wake Phoebe up, and my voice ends up coming out in a strained hiss.

Bobby just stands there, taking all the abuse I'm hurling at him, waiting for me to finish before he speaks.

"I had to do something to help you guys out, Stephanie. The few times I've brought up support for Phoebe you change the topic; it seemed fair for me to pay the bills you incurred while giving birth to my daughter." His voice is calm, his hands turned palm-up in supplication, imploring me to agree with him, but I can feel my anger covering me like a blanket. It has been my constant companion for more than a year now, and I feel the months of suppressed animosity toward this man boiling to a head.

"I. Don't. Need. Your. Help." I grit out. I am positively vibrating in rage at this point and I find that I'm just a little scared of what I might do next, but I cannot assault a man while my daughter sleeps just a few dozen feet away so I try to hurt him with words instead of my fists. "You left us, you fucking threw us to the wolves and for her entire life you haven't cared what happened to either of us. She could be dead for all you cared, you prick, so you _don't get_ to come in at the eleventh hour and start throwing your weight around, do you understand me?" I've slowly stalked toward him during my speech and I'm standing inches from his face, glaring daggers at him and willing him to just agree with me and leave.

Instead, I'm taken aback at the look of devastation on his face. He isn't crying but his eyes are definitely brighter than they were when I arrived, and he looks so _sad_ that I can't help the flutter of regret at my words. I huff and roll my eyes, take a big step backwards and shake my head, muttering, "Unbelievable. After everything, I still can't stand to see you upset. I'm the worst kind of fool."

Bobby corrects me immediately.

"You're not." He speaks softly, almost reverently, and takes a hesitant step toward me. I stiffen, and he changes direction, moving toward the couch. "You're compassionate and caring, Steph, not foolish. It's the biggest reason I fell in love with you."

We've been, for the most part, civil and distant since we started speaking again. We've communicated mostly through text message and almost strictly about Phoebe and our work schedules; we have explicitly avoided any mention of our former relationship. I bristle, but before I can retort he gestures toward the love seat and whispers, "Please, can we talk?"

I debate flipping him off and throwing him out of the apartment, or better yet, calling Lester to do it for me, but he's so earnest and so morose that instead I find myself drifting over to the sitting area and planting myself down opposite him, and I wait for him to speak.

"None of what you said was untrue," he begins, and shamefacedly bows his head. "My actions when I found out you were pregnant are unforgivable; I won't ask your forgiveness, Stephanie, not ever, because I don't deserve it. I do think, however, that you deserve the whole story."

My mouth runs dry at his words and I flinch. I can't imagine what else there is that I don't know about, but I don't think I can put myself through much more. I start to shake my head, and the look on my face must clue Bobby into what's going through my head because he reacts almost immediately.

"It's nothing like that; there's nothing to add to what I did when I ran," he says while holding his hands out. I'm reminded of a farmer trying to calm a startled horse, and I force my muscles to relax so he will continue speaking. "Ranger told me that I needed to tell you everything, all of it, and I think he's right: you deserve to know it all."

"Ranger knew?" I croak, and I'm gutted again; all the tears, all the sorrow he witnessed after Bobby left, and he had the missing puzzle piece?

"He does, but he didn't know I hadn't told you any of it He assumed we'd talked about it at some point," Bobby's voice soothes me in the way that it always has, and I hate that he still has enough influence over me to make me feel safe and calm. He, more than anyone, is a person I need to be cautious around.

I gesture for him to continue, and he begins his story.

"I know I've told you that I grew up in foster care," he begins, and his entire posture changes. He's tense now, almost as if he's frightened, though his voice remains steady enough. "I never told you the circumstances, though."

I'm still smarting from the feeling of calm I let envelope me when he soothed me, so I interrupt him and snark, "I'm sorry you had a shitty childhood, Bobby, but me knowing the details still doesn't excuse what you did."

"I know," comes his soft reply. "Still, I think if you knew some of what happened, you might not hate me quite so much." He's completely non-combative and accepting of everything I'm dishing out at him; it's draining the heat from my anger and I settle back in my seat before asking him to continue.

"My mother was a drug addict, and I never knew my father," he starts, lacing his fingers together and staring at his lap while he speaks.

"Family services was at our house a lot – I remember thinking Gina, my social worker, was an aunt because she'd come to see me so often and always brought me something to eat when she came, and I called her aunt Gina from early on." A ghost of a smile appears on his face before fading into a grimace. "Back then, the resources were scarce for kids like me and care standards weren't as established, so they just tried to get my mom help and keep me alive. Mom would take off for days at a time to party pretty often, so I was used to taking care of myself. I was 8 years old when my mom disappeared for the last time; I was home alone for 3 days before Gina came for a checkup and found out I'd been on my own. She took me with her and I went to an emergency foster home for a week before they found my mother. She'd overdosed in a flop house."

I couldn't stop the gasp that flew out of my mouth; regardless of our present situation, his story was heartbreaking. I thought of my own baby, safe and sound in the next room, and had the overwhelming urge to look at her and make sure she was safe.

The wry smile on Bobby's face told me his tale was far from over before he continued.

"A defiant, confused preteen black male in Louisiana foster care isn't exactly a commodity, so I bounced around quite a bit – I tried to count the homes once when I was in basic training and I think it was somewhere around 14 homes in 6 years. When I was about fifteen, I landed at the Compton's pig farm." He shoots me a crooked, humorless smile and says, "It was as glamorous as it sounds, Steph. Forty acres of Louisiana swamp land where they raised hogs and the orphaned teenagers that the foster system couldn't place in a home. The state pays foster parents to help with the expenses for the kids; the Comptons used that money to subsidize their income. They were white trash, plain and simple – the worst of the worst, and I've come across some pretty terrible, evil people in my line of work." He sighs deeply and scrubs his hand over his face, takes a deep breath and presses onward.

"They, the family, lived in a rundown shithole house that was never clean, but it was a huge improvement to where they kept the kids the state threw their way. We slept alongside the pig pens in what amounted to sheds. Old Man Compton would throw them together using whatever scrap metal or lumber he could pull from the dump. We'd sleep 3 and 4 deep on a mat on the floors of the shed, and the moisture would seep in and the mosquitos would feast on us nonstop because there were no doors to keep them out. No electricity, no running water for the State Kids – that's what we called ourselves – it was all really basic. The pigs were our responsibility, so that's how we spent our days. The old lady who lived in the house homeschooled their son and daughter, and she told the state she homeschooled us as well, but I'm sure you've guessed by now that that was a lie."

He pauses to take a few fortifying breaths and I can't help myself; my curious nature rears its head. "How many of you were there?" My voice is soft, respectful even, a far cry from the tone I had when this conversation began.

Bobby shrugs but doesn't meet my eyes, an action that is very telling of his emotional state right now. "Depended. There was always at least four, the most they had while I was there was nine."

The living conditions he's describing are heartbreaking, and I can't help but ask, "What about Gina? Couldn't you tell her about any of this?"

"No," he says, sparing me the fastest of glances before he again focuses on his lap. "I was half way across the state from where I'd started by then, and out of her jurisdiction. The Comptons didn't have a phone at all, not even in the big house, and it was so rural that I never saw a case worker. You have to understand, foster care in Louisiana swamp country in the mid-1980s was a far cry from what it is now. They were just happy that someone, anyone, wanted to take some of the unadoptable kids off their hands so the agencies didn't ask too many questions."

I nodded that I understood and Bobby cleared his throat, indicating that he wasn't finished with his tale.

"Aside from the state income from the State Kids and the pigs, the Comptons had another source of income." Bobby's voice goes flat, alarmingly so, and he picks a point on the wall to fix his stare on. It's an angle that didn't allow me to see anything of his face other than his side profile; the sudden change in demeanor is unsettling.

"For a fee, the old man would invite his friends over to be entertained by some of the State Girls." He lets his words sink in for just a few seconds, long enough for me to register what he's saying, and I'm immediately horrified at the picture he's painting. "There was a loft room in the barn that he'd occasionally send one of the girls to, and they'd come back later just wrecked, sometimes with torn clothes or a busted lip. They wouldn't talk about what was happening, he'd scared them enough that it kept them quiet, but we knew. We all knew." The traitorous white-knuckle grip Bobby had on the arm of the sofa belied the cold, flat tone of his voice. He was furious and trying to remain calm for me, so he could tell me everything, finally. I swallowed the questions burning in my mind and did my utmost to be respectful of his burden.

He looked at me then, really turned his head to stare directly at me, but I got the distinct impression he wasn't really seeing me. "I tried, Steph, to stop him, I swear I did. I went after him a handful of times, but I was just a skinny kid. I was weak from hunger and smaller than I should have been, they fed the pigs better than they did the State Kids, and he was so big…he'd whip me and it would take days before I could get up and work again, and it just made things worse for the other kids. We didn't know what to do."

I have tears clinging to my eyelashes and I'm stricken and soul-sick at the thought of the man sitting before me, one of the physically strongest and most competent men I've ever known, being misused so cruelly. It's heartbreaking. I think he's finished, surely it can't be worse, but he turns slowly away from me and fixes his thousand-yard stare at the wall again and I know, I just _know_ , that it's about to get much worse.

"Two of the girls fell pregnant around the same time," he says in that cold, dead tone, and I want to scream at him to stop but I can't. "The old man and his son didn't acknowledge it, and when one of the other boys suggested they needed to take the girls to see a doctor the old man hit him so hard he didn't wake up for almost an hour. We didn't talk about it after that."

"Why didn't you run? Why didn't you all run?" I can't help it; my voice is hoarse and barely a whisper, but the situation he describes is so desperate that I can't just sit and not say anything any longer.

"Run where?" he replies, his voice equally as hoarse as mine. "We were miles and miles from any town, and any neighbors we knew of were the ones coming for the girls. There were no phones, one vehicle that the old man or junior kept the keys to, and we were surrounded by alligator infested swampland. I've never felt so helpless in my whole life, Stephanie, and I've been to some of the worst places on earth."

"What happened? To the girls, to all of you?" I murmur, moving from my seat and sliding onto the cushion next to Bobby.

"The family went to town one day; we were so far out that a town day usually took the better part of the day, so we knew not to expect them back any time soon. The girls, the two that were pregnant, insisted on helping with the pigs that day, even though the rest of us tried to get them to rest. One of the pigs got loose of the pen and took off, hell bent on running away, and in the middle of all us kids trying to corral it back into the pen he ran dead on into Belinda. She hit the ground and screamed, grabbed her big pregnant belly and didn't stop screaming. It scared us so badly, but there was nothing to help, no phone, no medicine, nothing. I ran for help while the others tried to help her but the roads were all backwoods roads and there were so many forks that I didn't have much of a chance of finding anyone, anyway, and a really good chance of getting myself lost. I gave up after an hour and went back to the Compton farm. Belinda was still screaming, though it was weaker now, and she was bleeding pretty heavily. She was unconscious within a few hours, and by twilight she was seizing and quit breathing."

For now, in this moment, I can forget all the history between us; right now, Bobby isn't the man who left me pregnant without a word. Now, he's just a man reliving a horrifying, life-altering event and I feel his pain so deeply that I slide my hand into his and I don't protest when his grip tightens on it.

"The Comptons came home toward the end, when Belinda was still alive but not long for this world, and panicked. They refused straight off to take her to a doctor, and by the time they'd come up with the plan of taking her to a neighbor's place to see if they could help she was gone. The bastard just took her and laid her in the barn for the evening, told the rest of us to get to bed and they went into the big house. It wasn't until then, when we were all quiet and stunned, that we noticed Alice.

"She was the second pregnant girl, and the stress of seeing Belinda bleeding and dying had sent her into early labor. She'd kept it quiet, didn't want to draw attention to herself, but by that time it was getting hard for her to hide it. So we sat with her through that night, and with no more knowledge than it took to deliver a piglet, I helped Alice deliver a baby boy shortly before sunrise."

I gasped, not expecting this outcome; surely, this was a silver lining to Bobby's sad story. I squeezed his hand, feeling a celebratory surge shoot through me, but he refused to look at me as he continued.

"The old man woke up that morning and didn't say a word to us. He just stared at the baby for no more than a minute, turned and walked away. We were all a little uneasy, but we were making big plans for the baby and how we'd care for it, the way kids do when they're given a new pet. Around lunchtime, we met to eat at the table designated for us near the barn and watched as he brought Belinda down, wrapped in a sheet, and loaded her into the truck. When he came for Alice's baby next, we all panicked and tried to stop him. Junior came out of the house with a rifle, one we didn't know they even had, and held us off as the old man explained that he'd found a nice family for the baby and that they wanted to adopt him. Alice….God, Alice. I've never, in my life, Steph, heard anyone make the sounds she made when they pulled her baby from her arms and left with him in the truck. We never saw him again."

I can't help the sob that breaks through. It's so horrifying, the whole of it, but most especially the last bit. I thought I knew Bobby when we were a couple, but this…this makes it very clear to me that he kept a lot of the ugliness in his life from me. I can't understand how a normal, average grown man could just leave his baby with no word or attempt to check on their well-being…but if today has made anything clear to me, it's that Bobby Brown is no normal, average grown man.

Bobby turns to me and pulls me in for a hug, and for the first time in nearly two years, I let myself melt into him. I breath his familiar scent and, just for a moment, I let myself pretend that I belong to him, and he to me, and that this is my life.

All too soon he releases me and whispers, "I'm almost finished. Can you stand to hear the rest of it?"

I sniffle and nod; how could I see this through?

"The old man never spoke of it again. Poor Alice wandered around in a daze the rest of the time we were there, and oddly enough, the Comptons were content with her not working anymore. They just sort of ignored her presence. It wasn't until a couple of months later that it all blew up.

"Junior, that was what we called the son, was out marking piglets with us one day. We were all really leery of the family at that point; we made sure none of us were alone with any of them, and we were all very cautious of what we said around them. We knew, by then, how dangerous they were and how bad things could get. So there we were, in the pens, with Junior ignoring us and us ignoring him, when poor Alice wanders to the fence and just stops. She hadn't spoken much since the baby was taken, and what she did say didn't make a lot of sense, but for whatever reason that day she was clear as glass. 'Junior', she said, 'how is my baby doing? My little boy, is the family he's with good to him?' Junior was a little prick and just snorted and ignored her, so she asked again, just the same way as the first time, and when he ignored her again she kept asking and asking and asking…

"It felt insane. The whole thing felt like some scene out of a psychological thriller. Poor Alice was going crazy and Junior was just ignoring her and we all just stood there, powerless to do anything. I guess it got to be too much for him because, after the 50th or so time of Alice repeating her questions in the same tone, snapped at her. He said…he said…"

Bobby's voice cracked and he had to clear his throat to continue.

"'We threw that damn baby to the gators along with your fat friend, you nutty bitch'".

"No!" I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. "Oh, Bobby, no!"

"We all froze, just for a moment," he continues as though he hadn't heard me, "and Junior looked startled, like he hadn't meant to say anything at all, much less the awful truth. Then Alice screamed and we all jumped to action. I took the rope we used to tie down the piglets for marking and choked Junior until he was unconscious. We took the truck keys from his pocket and we piled, every one of us State Kids, into old man Compton's truck and headed for whatever town we could find.

"It took us most of the afternoon but we finally found a tiny town called Gueydan. We parked the truck and the lot of us – there were 5 then, including me – marched straight into the sheriff's office and told them everything."

I sighed, a big, gusty, curtain-rattling breath of relief and smiled before I noticed that Bobby did not look relieved; if anything, he looks more angry than I've ever seen him.

"What happened?" I whisper, perplexed by his reaction.

"Nothing. Not a damn thing. See, the Comptons told a story, too – about how Belinda had run away a good month before, and they were sure sorry they hadn't reported it yet, but being poor pig farmers with no phone, they couldn't be blamed, right? It was the word of a ragtag bunch of parentless kids against an adult who took in orphans out of the goodness of his heart, and wouldn't you know, those kids repaid his kindness by nearly choking the life out of his only son and stealing his truck?"

"But Alice! Surely they could've examined her, seen that she'd just given birth!" I'm outraged at the treatment of these kids and I sit here, decades later, thirsting for vengeance.

Bobby doesn't give me my pound of flesh; instead, he only grimaces and says, "The old man didn't deny that Alice had had a baby; his story was that we'd taken off with it and he had no idea where the child was now. Effectively, he made us out to be a gang of delinquents who possibly murdered Alice's child. The cops in that town didn't have the manpower or jurisdiction to deal with what either side was accusing the other of, so they called in family services and we were all taken away within 24 hours. Since I was the one who choked Junior, I got to see a juvenile court judge who offered me either jail or a junior ROTC program. It started me on my career path to the military, and it made my life infinitely better. The last time I checked on them, the others from the Compton farm were all doing okay; some had families, even. All that horror was the catalyst for making it out of that hellhole, Stephanie. It's also the reason I freaked out when you told me you were pregnant."

Bobby takes a deep breath and turns to face me, still holding onto my hand, and speaks to me.

"I can never make what I did right, I know that, and I won't insult you by asking for your forgiveness. I do hope that you can maybe understand, just a little bit, why the thought of being responsible for a baby made me panic and run. I was a complete bastard, Stephanie, but I am truly sorry. I regret it, more than I can tell you."

He looks so earnest and so beseeching that I can't help it; I feel the anger and resentment I've carried with me softening, and the resolve that I'd held so tightly to suddenly seems so insignificant. Right here, in this moment, being angry with Bobby seems so large a task, and absolving his guilt over his weakness feels like the right thing to do.

"I don't know if I'll ever feel okay about it," I say slowly, being so, so careful not to promise him something I can't deliver on but wanting, desperately, to ease the burden he's carried for nearly 2 decades. "You've just told me about the worst thing that's ever happened to you, and I can see how and why it affected you the way it did. But Bobby…you leaving me the way you did, that's the worst thing that's ever happened to _me_." At this, he closes his eyes and swallows hard, unwilling to meet my gaze. I tug his hand gently until he opens his eyes, and I'm floored by the regret I see in them.

"I understand you better now," I continue, "probably better than I ever did when we were together. I can't promise you anything other than a chance to be Phoebe's father right now, Bobby."

"It's more than I hoped for when I came back," he interrupts, and he looks infinitely happier than he has since we started this conversation. "And I promise, Stephanie, that I'm going to be here. I'm going to be dependable and trustworthy and I'll take care of the two of you."

"Phoebe," I correct him. "You can help take care of Phoebe. I get that you had serious reservations about her, and now I understand why, but as far as you and I go, we're just co-parenting our daughter."

"Of course," he says, nodding, but there's no hiding the fleeting look of disappointment on his face. I take great pains to hide my own disappointment, and Phoebe, in a show of great timing, chooses that moment to announce that naptime is over, effectively pulling us out of a potential conversational landmine.

* * *

 ** _a/n:_** _Hallelujah, Holy shit! where's the Tylenol? This was twice as long as any other chapter I've ever typed and took me all afternoon to finish. I greatly appreciate all the reviews and notes y'all are sending me, it's such a great motivator! I'm a full-time student in the nursing program so my free time is practically non-existent, but I'm going to keep plugging away at this. I've got the story mapped out, it's just a matter of finding time to write. Thanks for the encouragement, this is my only non-school related fun for the time being and I'm really enjoying the feedback (:_


	9. Chapter 9

_Hi, all! I've got a break from nursing school and the time to update (finally) - the 'Wonder Woman' trailers I keep seeing totally remind me of Stephanie; anyone else?_

 **SPOV**

It's a struggle, but I manage to tote a box from the Tasty Pastry _and_ 13 pounds of baby girl from my car to the bonds office without dropping either. I've been choosier since Phoebe was born, only taking the skips I know personally or the ones that aren't likely to be violent, and I always go with Lula; research at Rangeman supplements my income, but chasing skips keeps me from dying of boredom. Connie called to let me know there were a few files that matched my criteria, so here I am, to collect my files and catch up on gossip with my friends.

We bustle in, the bell announcing our arrival, and both the girls look at me and hurry toward me. I'm not fooled, though – they're not racing toward me to shower me with affection. They're after something sweeter – namely, donuts and Phoebe kisses.

Connie relieves me of the bakery box, launching into a diatribe on her latest date (a loser, apparently) as Lula hoists Phee from my arms, cooing and doing her level best to smooth the curls on my daughter's head. I snort at that; good luck. I'd have an exorcism performed on them if I thought it would help, but I think that would only give them more power.

Lula has a surprisingly maternal nature with Phoebe. For all her rough edges, my bawdy friend is a big softie with my daughter. Her ordeal with Benito Ramirez left a big question mark on Lula's ability to have children of her own, and the fact that she and Tank can't seem to move forward at the same speed in their on again/ off again relationship doesn't help matters. I feel a zing of pity for Lula before my attention shifts to Connie, who is looking at me expectantly.

"What?" I ask, having no sense of what she was saying. Like, at all. With Connie, you have to be careful. She's Family with a capital 'F', so never, EVER agree with anything she says unless you know what you're agreeing to.

She huffs and grabs the bottle polish off her desk, thrusting it into my hands. "This shade! Don't you think it'll be great for your date with my cousin, Mario?"

"What?! What date?! I'm not going on a date with anyone!"

"Oh no, missy," she begins, wagging a finger at me and advancing on me slowly. "When we talked last week, you agreed that you needed to get back on that horse and I went to the trouble to set you up with my cousin! He's nice, he's a plumber and owns a nice second-hand Cadillac! You'll like him, you've got a lot in common."

"Like what?" I ask. I'm not interested, not really, but woman cannot subsist off of donuts alone.

With a shrug, Connie says, "He lives near a bakery and he's been divorced three times."

I squeeze my eyes shut and try counting to ten. It doesn't work, and at three I yell, "Once! I've been divorced _once_ and it wasn't my fault, it was the Dick's fault so it barely counts!"

Lula chooses then to pipe up. "Yeah, but you was with Morelli for years and you dumped him, and even though he was fine he _was_ a cop so I can't fault you there, but there was Ranger and _holy shit is that man hot_ , I still can't believe you had that all to yourself, and THEN you moved on to Bobby, who is the hottest brother at that building full of hotties after my Tankie, so all that has to equal at least, like, one divorce." I take a minute to decipher what she's said (mostly since she said it in one breath and in a sing-song voice to keep Phoebe happy) before shaking my head to disagree.

"That doesn't make sense. If you'll recall, Ranger and Bobby both dumped me, so that should hardly count." My rebuttal started off sounding smug, but by the end I only feel sad. I think it must show because Connie waves a dismissive hand, brings Phoebe a tiny piece of donut to gum, and says, "So you'll consider going out on a date with Mario, then?" just as the bell over the door jingles.

And because I'm me and my life reads like something out of a FanFiction novel, I know without looking who has just entered the bonds office.

With a sigh, I turn to see Bobby and Vince standing in the doorway. Vince greets everyone with a nod and a friendly smile, while Bobby ignores everyone and makes a bee line for Phoebe. I cringe inwardly, knowing he heard Connie mention me going on a date; things with Bobby have been what Ella calls 'cautiously optimistic'. We get along okay, though our interaction is limited to exchanges about Phoebe and are mostly short. There's an undercurrent there that I'm not oblivious to, but I want no part of it, and though he hasn't said anything, I know that Bobby doesn't share my aversion. I know, because I know him – _knew_ him – so well that he's working hard to hide the fact that he's holding out hope we'll reconcile someday. It's something I haven't talked to anyone about because, well…I don't want to think about it. I'm not sure how I feel about it, other than know that trying to pick my way through the landmine of my feelings about Bobby makes my anxiety ratchet up about 20 notches and gives me a headache.

I'm wrenched back to the present by the sound of Phoebe screeching in delight as Bobby lifts her over his head and nibbles on her tummy, and I smile. Above all, I know that I am happy to see my daughter happy, and for now that's enough.

Connie gives up her attempts to lure Vince into asking her on a date and hands over Rangeman's files, and he motions to Bobby that he'll be outside. Bobby nods and turns to me and quietly asks if I'll walk him out. I follow him, ignoring the openly curious stares of Connie and Lula.

Once we're outside, he turns toward me and, keeping his eyes on Phoebe, asks if I need him to babysit this weekend while I'm on my date.

I see, from the barely noticeable strain around his lips and the way he avoids looking at me how much this bothers him, and I do my best to tamp down the Jersey girl attitude that whispers in my ear to put him in his place. Instead, I remember Mary Lou's advice and take a deep breath before I answer him.

"I don't have a date. Connie wanted me to meet her cousin but I'm…I just think it's not, you know. A good time for me. To be dating."

I hate hate _hate_ that I'm suddenly a stuttering bundle of nerves, and Bobby's grin at my proclamation just makes it worse. The traitorous fluttering in my belly is fuel for my temper and I'm clenching my teeth so hard I'm sure he can see the bulge in my jaw.

He compounds my frustration when he asks if we've had breakfast.

"Yup." I answer, popping the 'p' and examining my nails, doing my utmost to appear bored with the conversation. I open my mouth to elaborate, think better of it, and close it again. All in all, I'm pretty sure I am **not** pulling off a carefree appearance. Sigh.

Lula, God bless her, pops up behind me in a rare show of fantastic timing and interrupts us.

"We going after Punky this mornin' or what? Cuz I'm hearing some pretty disturbin' sounds coming outta yo' scumbag cousin's office and it's making my breakfast donuts not sit well."

"Yes! Punky, sure, let's get to it!" I'm jabbering again, eager for a breather and I reach for Phoebe and promise Bobby that we'll be finished by 4 so he can take her to the park, as planned.

He frowns and says, "Can I, uh, take her while you go after Punky?"

I roll my eyes so far back I can practically see Lula behind me, doing the same thing. Really, what does he take me for?!

"Mom is keeping her this morning for me while we run down a few skips," I say in my best patient voice as I lift my daughter from his arms. I must've sounded more snarky than I intended because Bobby joined in the eye rolling party we were having on the sidewalk. I decided less is more, and with a quick goodbye left him to Vince.

Lula and I rocketed off in my car minutes later, heading toward the 'Burg to drop Phoebe off while Lula turned on some ass-kicking music to 'get us in the mood'.

"Fudge yeah! We're gonna kick the schnitzel out of that jive-butt turkey and his, uh…is 'wanger' a curse word?" Lula had, in deference to Phoebe's presence, decided to clean up her language. So far….well, so far I just give her credit for trying.

I grimace and don't answer as we round the corner and park in front of the two-family duplex the Plums have inhabited for longer than I've been alive. It's brown and peeling paint have always, to my knowledge, been brown and peeling, and it's perpetually surrounded by the smell of roast and my mother's disappointment.

We bustle in and deposit my baby in the high chair my mom has used for all her grandchildren. Phoebe has gone a long way in repairing my relationship with my mom, but Helen Plum is unarguably more comfortable with my daughter than with me. It's been a tough pill to swallow, but if I've learned anything as a mother, it is to count each victory in life and savor the flavor.

Mom sends us out the door with half a loaf of pumpkin bread and we beat feet back to my car before careening down the street. We're 4 blocks away and 2 tracks deep into Lula's mixtape of apprehension songs (don't ask) when a voice pipes up from the backseat and scares the pants off both of us.

"Boy, this sure beats sitting around the house watching your mother iron washcloths because you ain't married yet!"

Lula and I scream and I swerve to avoid a light pole before we come to a rest on the sidewalk. Wide-eyed, we turn in unison to see Grandma sitting ramrod-straight in the back seat, clutching her purse in one hand and her gun in the other, eyes shining and ready for an adventure.

"Grandma!" I sputter, trying to hide my dismay. "I didn't know you were, ah, coming along with us today!"

"You know," grandma says thoughtfully, "I wasn't going to but when I heard Lula's soundtrack playing when you guys pulled up to the house, I knew it was going to be a pip of a bust and that you'd probably need some backup."

"Fuckin' A," said Lula before she and grandma did one of those complicated fist-bump-slash-handshake before looking at me expectantly.

I sigh and cave as gracefully as I can manage.

"Fine, but if either of you get arrested, I'm not bailing you out!"


	10. Chapter 10

_Shameless author's note: thanks, everyone, for the notes of encouragement and the reviews - the reviews! I love the feedback from them, and the time it takes to write one is really appreciated! And thank you, legalliz, for the nice note reminding me to finish this chapter, it definitely lit a fire!_

* * *

 **BPOV**

I make the last notation on Lester's chart and mumble to him that he can go. A big, jaw-cracking yawn interrupts me, and I give in to it – I've been pulling 12 hour shifts this week, trying to stay ahead of the routine quarterly physicals that Rangeman requires.

"Long week?" Les asks, pulling me back to the present. I shake my head and ask if it's that obvious, and he looks at me speculatively before asking if we need to pull Bones back from rotations.

"Naw, I'm okay," I answer as I set the exam room to rights. It's a bit strange, talking to Les, but only because we've been so at odds – actually, talking to him is kind of nice. It tugs at the ever-simmering nostalgia for the way my life was before I torched it to cinders by leaving.

I continue, "I'm just trying to get everything out of the way before Friday; Steph said I can keep Phoebe overnight, and I don't want anything to distract me. I bought a DVD with some character Steph says she's obsessed with and some new bath toys, we're going to have a night in, you know?"

Les nods, careful to keep his face angled away from mine before he says, casually, "Maybe I'll stop by, yeah?"

I take a second to soak it in and try to identify the feeling…acceptance. That's what I'm feeling. It's been so long that it's almost foreign to me now; it's nice.

"Yeah, that'd be great," I answer, careful to turn my back to him. We're just two dudes, being casual. No big deal.

Les mumbles some excuse about having a meeting to get to and scoots out the door, and I busy myself with tidying the medical suite with a smile on my face.

The next day goes off without a hitch and by 1600 hours, Stephanie has transferred Phoebe to my care. She (Steph, not the baby) looks absolutely exhausted – Phee's one year molars are coming in, Stephanie tells me, and explains that she hasn't gotten much sleep lately because my poor baby has been up and down all night. She leaves detailed instructions on how to care for her if they should bother her, and I humor her by listening patiently as she lectures me on ibuprofen dosing. I lean in to kiss Stephanie's cheek goodbye while she's got her hands full and she stares at me, goggle-eyed, for a moment before shaking her head and making her way quickly toward her car. I can't help but sigh; I keep hoping she'll warm up to me eventually, but so far she's been careful to keep her distance.

I can't get hung up on that now, though, because Phoebe is squirming and eager to get down; she recognizes the building and is impatient to make her rounds.

The guys all stop their work as we 'walk' around to greet them; Phoebe offers smiles to all and sundry and slobbery baby kisses to a select few. For some reason, she adores Ranger and will go right to him every time she sees him. The irony of Stephanie's baby loving Ranger isn't lost on him and more than once I've seen real sadness in his eyes when Phoebe plays in his arms, and maybe the barest hint of regret. The possibilities that stem from those feelings keep me up some nights.

I reclaim my daughter from Ranger and we head up to my apartment. Ella helped me babyproof it a couple of months ago, when Steph started letting me keep Phoebe for a few hours here and there without Ella's supervision.

We've made Playdough pizzas and are working our way through a box of Goldfish when there's a knock on the door. I expected Lester, and I'm pleasantly surprised to see Tank with him – as far as I'm concerned, the more men watching out over Phoebe, the better.

Tank scoops Phoebe up and starts a game of 'airplane' while Les and I angle onto the couch.

"Steph looked beat earlier," he begins while helping himself to a handful of Phoebe's crackers.

"She did," I agree, frowning when Tank dips my baby girl a little too fast for my liking. Phoebe disagrees and squeals in delight before I continue. "Phoebe's getting molars in, Steph said it's been rough on her."

"Did you get the medication lecture from Momma Bear?" he asks with a smirk and I can only smile back and answer, ruefully, "I'm just glad she's talking to me at all."

Les raises a surprised eyebrow. "Really? She seemed totally fine at Phoebe's birthday party, it seemed like everything was good with you two."

I take a moment to choose my words carefully before I respond. "It's pretty good for the most part. I think she gets a little…anxious? uncomfortable, maybe?...when we're alone together. Like she's waiting for me to pounce on her or something."

"Are you planning to?" he asks without missing a beat.

And there is my dilemma. I _want_ to pounce on Stephanie, badly, but I know it wouldn't be welcome at this point. She's gone from despising me to being less than welcoming but more than merely tolerating me, all in a relatively short amount of time. In the almost six months that I've been back in Trenton, the progress we've made feels both enormous and miniscule because while I've got Phoebe in my life, I don't have Stephanie and while I understand, logically, that it's a consequence I must live with, actually living with it every day is a hard pill to swallow.

"Well?" Lester's voice brings me back to the present and I realize I zoned out while contemplating my predicament.

"I'm not _planning_ anything," I say cautiously; for all the progress we've made, I know Lester is still very protective of Steph and Phoebe. I don't want to give him any indications that my intentions are less than honorable.

"I care about her, a lot," I continue, "and I hope that eventually, she'll feel more secure with me. I guess I just want her to _want_ to give me the chance to prove that I'm in this for good, you know?" A thought occurs to me and I hurriedly ask, "Why, has she said anything about me? Does she want me to make a move; is she waiting for it?"

Les shrugs and says, "Not to me. Tank?"

Tank pops his head around the corner and replies, "Huh?"

Les asks again, "Has Steph asked anything about Bobby lately?"

Tank's forehead crinkles in confusion, so Les tries again.

"Has Stephanie said anything to you about, like, wanting Bobby to ask her out or anything? Or has she been asking any, ya know, personal questions about him?"

Tank glares at him _grumbles_ in his deep baritone voice to himself before answering. "Man, do I _look_ like the kind of guy who sits around gossiping with women about their love lives? Do I strike you as the kind of man who would have that conversation? Why are people always trying to ask me about relationship shit?!"

I can't help but laugh; the sight of Big as Life Tank grouching about being made to gossip isn't something one gets to witness every day.

I must be slow on the uptake today because Les butts in before I catch it. "Wait, who else is asking you for relationship advice?"

Tank only glares and huffs and carefully sets Phoebe down in front of a pile of toys before he folds his massive arms across his barrel-like chest. He stands like that for several looong quiet moments before rolling his eyes and scrubbing his face with one skillet-sized hand.

"Shee-it, man," he complains, rolling his eyes, "you know I don't wanna be all up in this mess."

Les leans toward me and whispers, "Don't let him fool you, man, he **lives** for gossip. He knew all there was to know about the Bomber/Ranger/Morelli triangle they had going years ago."

Tank throws up his arms and says, "Yeah! I did know it all; I didn't ask for **none** of the details but everyone thinks I'm their girlfriend and I want to listen while they spill their guts to me. I'm an Army Ranger! I've been deployed 3 times and I **still** go on the occasional op! I'm a badass - grown men piss themselves when I show up at their place!"

"And you know something so quit all your whining and spill," Les snarks back. It earns him two middle finger salutes from Tank. They square off, neither budging, eyeing each other before, predictably, Tank caves.

"I don't know nothing," he begins, "'cept Lula was askin' a lot of questions about you." Here he nods at me before he continues, ticking off on his fingers. "How you spend your downtime, do you talk about Steph or the baby, are you seeing anyone. That is IT, that is ALL I know and I'd really like it if I could NOT talk about this shit anymore." And with that he stalks over to my fridge and pulls a beer out, draining half of it in a single long pull before belching and sighing in satisfaction.

I take a moment to consider what he said; Lula was fishing for information about me, about my habits and who I keep company with when I'm not with Stephanie or Phoebe. Was it her own curiosity? Or was she on a fishing expedition for Steph?

I'm pulled out of my reverie when Tank starts making noises about leaving. He and Les jostle Phoebe around for a few minutes, kissing her and parroting 'bye-bye' to Phoebe in the hopes of getting her to repeat it to them before leaving her to play with her toys and me to stew in my thoughts.

* * *

 **SPOV**

Clichéd phrases are the worst; they're overused to the point that instead of solidifying a thought, they detract from it. The oversaturation of these terms has drained them of any real meaning, and they've always been a bit of a pet peeve of mine. However, this morning, I have to agree with my mother – a good night's sleep really _has_ set me to rights. I was in bed, curtains drawn, before 8:00 last night and I slept through until almost 9 this morning. I feel fresher and more invigorated than I can remember feeling in a long time! I don't know why I haven't let Phoebe spend the night with Bobby before now!

 _Sure you do, it's because he's a rat bastard and you still sort of hate his guts_. I roll my eyes at my Inner Bitch and thunk the side of my head with my palm; that'll teach her. I remind myself that forward is the path I chose to move down, so forward I must go. I stamp down my residual resentment and enjoy a nice, long shower instead of my usual quick, in-and-out routine because there is no baby to occupy while I bathe. I take the time to exfoliate and shave everywhere. I deep condition my hair while I give myself a manicure and pedicure, and after I rinse my hair a second time I paint my nails to show off my morning's efforts. I also use Mr. Alexander's miracle hair goop and let my curls air-dry while I take my time applying makeup and dressing in a blouse that hides my flaws and accentuates my boobs, along with a cute skirt and peep-toe pumps. When I'm all finished, I survey the finished product in the mirror and am pleasantly surprised with the image that smiles back at me; I forgot, actually forgot how nice it feels to feel put together. Being a mom hasn't allowed me much time lately to pamper myself, and I wonder why I stopped.

I deflate, only a tiny bit, when I remember why – I have no one to make the effort for. It's just Phoebe and I; there has been no man to impress.

No! I won't let my thinking go down that path, not today – I silently recite all the good things in my life to myself. I've got a home, I've got friends, I've got a beautiful, healthy little girl, I've got a job I'm good at, I've got Bobby –

I stop cold at that thought. The reflection staring back at me looks surprised, maybe a bit apprehensive, and I mull over that. Do I have Bobby? And when did that thought reflexively fall into the 'good things in my life' category? I've spent quite a lot of time lately actively not thinking about Bobby…maybe I should take a little time to think about him.

But first, it's time to pick Phoebe up. The thought chases any doldrums clinging to me away, and I smile a real, genuine smile. Though I've enjoyed my night off, I really can't wait to see her. I spritz a little Dolce Vita on my wrists and sail out the front door.

After I arrive at Rangemen, I get a few good-natured catcalls and wolf whistles from the guys on duty. I smile and roll my eyes, and flip a few of them off for fun as I make my way toward Bobby's apartment. I knock and wait, and catch myself adjusting my hair. Jeez. I really need to get out more.

Bobby opens the door to greet me, and I will not lie – I am pleased immensely when his mouth drops open as he drinks me in. I straighten my back and smile, just a little; it's been a while since I've had real male admiration slung at me and it feels good.

Bobby's eyes sweep down to my shoes and back up, and the haughty feeling I'd been basking in chokes and dies when his eyes lock with mine. There's hunger there, real desire, and my traitorous heart flutters down to my stomach. I want to look away, I _do_ , but I'm locked in, unable to break his gaze, even when he shifts his body so he's closer to mine. With a mind of its own, my tongue darts out to wet my upper lip and when I hear him groan, I can't help but gasp in a tiny breath of air – I remember, all too well, what that groan means and my body is screaming for some sort of release that isn't a solo mission.

The moment is broken when Phoebe spots me, shrieks in delight, and races over to us on all fours. She uses Bobby's pant leg to pull herself up to standing, and finally, he clears his throat and swings the door wide open. I accept the invitation and step inside his apartment, squatting down to scoop my baby up and smother her with kisses, silently thanking her for intervening. That was a _really_ close call.

"How'd she do?" I ask to break up the noticeable silence coming from him. He clears his throat before replying, and I can't hide the smirk from knowing I still have an effect on him. So sue me, it feels nice to feel pretty!

"Great," he says with real excitement, "she went down so well and only woke up once, she wasn't any trouble at all, we had great time." I risk a glance at him. He's looking at Phoebe, babbling happily on my lap, with real love and affection, and I can't stop the wave of contentment that washes over me. In fact, I don't want to stop it; Bobby loving my daughter makes me happy, for all of us. It's the first time I've let myself admit it, and I'm happily surprised that I feel none of the shame or anger I'd expected to feel. And so I catch his eyes and give him a huge, happy smile. His answering smile is soft, and happy, and for a split second I just let myself take in the moment and forget about all the garbage between us, and I let it be enough.

Stephanie Plum: Super Adult.

I stand to gather her overnight bag and transfer her back to Bobby so he can kiss her goodbye, when he nonchalantly asks what we've got planned for the day.

I shrug and say, "I was thinking we'd grab something to eat, maybe hit the park? It's going to be nice out and I don't have to work today, but I don't really have a plan."

"Would it be okay if I took you girls to lunch?" he asks, and it throws me – I wasn't expecting it, and it almost feels like too much. The moment at the door when I felt the familiar pull of desire coupled with the moment in his living room where we shared our joy in our daughter has left me feeling a bit raw, and I'm not sure being around him when I'm in this state is good for me in the long run.

In the end, his hopeful look and Phoebe's apparent happiness at being with both of us at the same time wins me over, and so the three of us set off to have an early lunch. Bobby acts deceptively cool and collected on the way to the restaurant, and because I knew him so well once upon a time, I know it's forced. The fact that he feels nervous about our first outing as a family restores a bit of my courage, and I feel a bit better about the whole thing.

After slicing up grilled chicken into miniscule, baby-sized pieces and piling rice and diced tomato on Phoebe's tray, I'm left to spend our lunch hour chatting with Bobby.

After he left, when I wasn't busy hating him or planning for Phoebe's arrival, in the dark of night when I was alone, I would let myself think of this Bobby, of My Bobby – the funny, fun charmer he is on this gorgeous day, eating and teasing and storytelling. It's warm and sweet and everything it ever was, and while it makes me sad that it was allowed to wither and die, I find myself offering a quiet prayer of thanks that we haven't completely lost this.

It occurs to me, when he excuses himself to find the restroom, how much effort it took to hate him all this time. It was a beast that had to be fed with contempt and hate and ugly words, and the beast was never satisfied. I'm still pondering over this when he returns and he smiles, and because he knew me as well as I knew him, he asks, "Deep thoughts?"

"I was just thinking of how far this has come," I say, gesturing between us. My candor surprises him, as it does me, and he nods slowly.

"We have," he agrees, his voice quiet and solemn. "I've never thanked you, for this – for allowing me to be around Phoebe and for the opportunity to be in her life. I won't lie, I really sort of expected you to have the guys fit me with concrete boots and pitch me into the Delaware," he smiles, but there is no humor in it. "I regretted leaving you from the moment I set foot on the plane, but now, being here with Phoebe…I can't tell you how ashamed I am." His eyes refuse to meet mine; instead he focuses on some invisible spot on the table between us. I have a lump in my throat the size of an apple, and I want to interrupt, to yell and to soothe, to cry and to comfort him, but I'm frozen and all I can do is listen.

He continues, "I'll have to explain this to her, someday," and he gestures toward Phoebe, keeping his eyes down, "and that keeps me up at night. The thought of some man, someday, doing this to her…I really don't know how you can stand to be around me." He finishes in a whisper, shaking his head, and still, I'm frozen.

Phoebe saves us again, lobbing her tomatoes at her father and screeching in absolute delight. We both chuckle and glance at each other, almost shyly, before I screw up my courage and speak.

"You've apologized for leaving, and I told you then that we'd just have to go from there. I see the effort you've made with Phoebe; that's why we're here. It's not because saying you were sorry absolved you of anything, it's because you've made every effort to be a parent…even when I didn't make it easy for you." He opens his mouth to protest, to excuse me, and I wave him off – I know how difficult I was, and I know he accepts it because he believes he deserved it. But it has to stop.

I continue, "We've reached a point where I think we both need to let that go. I can't carry it anymore; it's exhausting, Bobby. And I know it wears on you, too – the bottom line is that you're good for Phoebe, so you have to be able to just love her without the guilt… otherwise you're going to end up trying to make this up to her in ways that aren't healthy. We both love her, so from here on out, we let that motivate us to parent her. Deal?"

I'm determined and a little dazed at this whole conversation, but right now, in this moment, I have tunnel vision – this is the path we need to be on, I'm sure of it. There are no distractions, no unproductive feelings right now, just an end goal to reach and I am on track to hit it. This must be how Ranger feels when he's in his Zone.

Bobby takes a deep breath and nods. He looks unconvinced but resigned, and while I know it's not my job to make him happy, I find myself wanting to. This seems like a good time to excuse myself so I can collect my thoughts in the ladies room.

When I return, all traces of tension are gone. Bobby has paid and cleaned Phoebe up, and we smile and walk together to the car where he buckles her in snuggly. She falls asleep on the way back to Rangeman, which frees us up to make pleasant small talk.

When we reach Rangeman, I stop in front of the building to let him out and we both speak at the same time.

"Thanks for invit-"

"Thanks for lun-"

We laugh, and it's free and fun and everything a shared laugh should be. For the first time in months, I feel light and happy and good and I really, really hope it can stay this way.

"Seriously, Steph, thanks for letting me tag along, it was great to spend time with you two," he says and smiles at me, and I melt the teeniest bit – all of the Merry Men are lookers, but Bobby is something else. I'm drunk on smiles and contentedness, so I tell him we should do it again soon, and he agrees, smiling so much that his dimple puckers adorably, the same way Phoebe's does. What a great day.

He opens the door, hesitates, and looks back at me before shutting it. Shit. I spoke too soon.

"Stephanie, I wanted to, uh, to let you know that I'm not seeing anyone. I heard Lula was asking around and I didn't know if you were, um, concerned about Phoebe being exposed to any women. I just wanted you to know that there's absolutely no one." He says all of this in a rush, staring earnestly at me, and I wasn't expecting it so all I can do is blink, owl-eyed at him for a few seconds before I can reply.

"Oh. Okay." It's a stutter and it's garbled, but it's all I've got.

He holds my gaze, and I know I look confused, but he is very intent when he says, "It's important to me that you know that." Then he smiles again, leans over to kiss my cheek and he's gone before I can come up with a reply.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: This community of authors and readers makes what started as a fun hobby morph into a commitment and a kinship; I really love getting PMs and reviews and recognizing names. It feels sort of like we're all working on this together, and that is totally bitchin' (showing my age here, I know..) I have the BEST time messaging with you all, so please, keep the comments and subtle reminder pokes to keep writing coming, it really makes my day! Legalliz, I heard you loud and clear!**

* * *

 **SPOV**

I stretch and groan, my eyes still closed from sleep, the feeling of teeth on my neck a welcome sensation. His lips trail down my neck and skim my collar bone, and I moan again, eliciting a chuckle from my happy nibbler. He spends a few moments there, teasing me, drawing out my sighs and gasps, before heading further south.

He abandons all pretense of delayed gratification and latches quickly onto my nipple, and I cry out at the sensation. His hands are everywhere except where I want them most, and the apex of my thighs is weeping with need of his ministrations. He moans, deep and throaty, and the vibrations where his mouth is clamped firmly at my breast ratchet the game up another notch. I'm so close, I'm almost there, if I can only get his hands where I need them…

"Please," I whisper, undulating my hips and arching my back, "Oh, please!"

"Please, _what_ , baby?" he murmurs, and I gasp again as he releases my breast and mounts me, swallowing my cries and moving to settle where I need him.

" **Please** , Bobby – "

With a cry, I jackknife upright and pant, staring around in complete confusion. What the…?

 _A dream_. For the love of Pete, it was a friggin' _dream_?! About…Bobby? A sex dream about Bobby, and now I'm in a state, teetering on the very precipice of implosion, and I'm embarrassed, though I'm alone, and I feel confused and a dozen other emotions I don't want to examine too closely right now.

I huff and throw back my covers, completely frustrated and resentful of my traitorous subconscious who is, apparently, a slut with a fixation on my ex. I stomp into the bathroom, turn the shower on full blast, and step into the cold stream fully clothed.

An hour later, I've caved to my baser needs and utilized my deluxe shower massager, shaved, and dressed for the day, all by 6:30am. I brew a pot of coffee and throw in a load of laundry and set about cleaning Rex's cage – the busier my hands are, the less time I have to think about _that dream_. An hour later, I've got a clean house, a decent caffeine buzz going, and a happy Phoebe buckled into her high chair munching on dry Cheerios. I've got the morning off and frankly, the empty hours until I hand Phee off to Bobby seem…daunting, somehow.

I decide to visit my girlfriends and see what their take on the whole 'hot-dream-sex-with- man-I-formerly-loved-and-currently-don't-exactly-hate' is.

After a quick stop for diapers I breeze through the door of the bonds office. After greeting the girls, I quickly throw up a playpen for Phee and plop her inside with a few of her favorite toys and settle in to share my shame.

Lula and Connie are already eyeing me speculatively, sharing suspicious looks and waiting for me to start…except now that I'm here, I don't know if I can tell them. Suddenly, this whole idea seems pretty dumb.

"Girl, you get laid?" Leave it to Lula to break the ice so bluntly.

"No!" I yelp, fanning the air with my hands and glancing at Phoebe. She's blissfully unaware that her mother is about to make a complete fool of herself.

Connie nods, squinting one eye at me and says, "There's something, though…you get a new shower massager?"

"Jeez! Is nothing sacred with you two!" I'm blushing to my hairline and wondering how quickly I can load up my baby and the playpen when the bell over the door chimes. Our heads swivel in unison and we all stare at Ranger and Tank, eyes wide and looking very much like we were caught doing something we shouldn't be.

Ranger is, in a word, _hot_. There was a brief time when he and I shared a bed, immediately followed by him unceremoniously dumping me and fleeing to Miami. We're in a good place now, for which I'm thankful, but in light of the fact that I'm a huge dream-slut AND the fact that Ranger has always been able to read me like a book, I'm seriously wishing I was anywhere but here.

Ranger greets me with his usual, "Babe," before scooping Phoebe into his massive arms and kissing her round little cheeks. He regards me for moment before raising one eyebrow and asking, "New shower massager?"

I sputter and rest my fists on my hips, shooting for indignant and probably coming off like an angry tomato instead. Tank, sensing a coup, hastily kisses Lula before scooping up Rangeman's files and retreating. I always did think Tank was a smart man.

Ranger just gives me all 200 watts, kisses my cheek and deposits Phoebe back into her playpen. He strides toward the door, mutters "Ladies," to Connie and Lula and leaves us all staring open-mouthed at his backside before the door closes.

We share a moment of quiet appreciation for the male form before Lula smells blood in the water and starts circling.

"So what gives, white girl? You stomp in here all wound up tight and blushing, and that ain't happened since Batman used to leave you in the alley after kissing the lipstick off of ya. You got a new man?"

"What about Bobby?" Connie interrupts. As my girlfriends, they are automatically privy to the drama surrounding Bobby's return to Trenton, so they're familiar with our little ongoing saga.

"I don't have _any_ man," I lob back, searching for a donut box stashed somewhere on Connie's desk. Drat. They either didn't get donuts today (unlikely) or they've eaten them all and hidden the evidence (probable). "I did have a…a slightly disturbing dream and I'm really not sure how to, uh, interpret it."

"Was it a dream of the naked variety?" Lula asks with all the delicacy of a water buffalo.

My answering blush is all she needs to probe ahead. "Was Hot Bobby in this dream?" I forget sometimes how perceptive Lula can be. Years on the street as a 'ho taught her to read people, and right now I was feeling like she was reading me with a magnifying glass.

"I feel really confused about it; I shouldn't be feeling like that about him, right? I mean, once bitten twice shy and all that, I don't really _want_ to have dreams like that about Bobby-"

Just then Vinnie pokes his head out of his office. "What kind of dream was it? Like, freaky? Cuz this one time I had a dream that I was a circus trainer and I had to stay late to lock up the animals, and some of them were _really_ bad that day – ULK!"

Connie had popped up out of her chair as soon as Vinnie's door opened, retrieved the bug he'd planted, and was currently trying her hardest to cram it down his throat while yelling at him.

"Vinnie, you scum! You pervert! You sick sack of - !" After a few minutes, Vinnie is able to break free from her grasp and slams the door to his office shut before shooting the deadbolt.

Connie and Lula spend a few minutes looking for more bugs before they satisfy themselves, grumbling about Vinnie the whole time. Phoebe just looks amused.

"That duck-loving weasel better hope I leave before he does today," Connie grouses, sashaying back to her chair.

"Duck," Phoebe says, smiling at Connie.

"Wow, she's talkin' real good, Steph!" Connie croons in a sing-song voice, clapping for Phoebe.

"Yeah, maybe _you_ should get to talkin' cuz I know you gonna try to make a run for it here in a minute and you ain't even told us about this dream and why you came in looking all sexed up today!"

I skim through the details and outline the facts: I had a dream, a sexy one, about Bobby. I'm confused and a little disgusted with myself because I don't want to want Bobby, but I kind of do. And I wrap it up by turning an accusing glare at Lula.

"…and he told me that you've been asking people if he's dating anyone, and I think he thinks that I want to know!"

"Is he?" she asks.

"No! At least, he says no, but that's not the point! Now he thinks I'm making inquiries about his love life, so he thinks I'm interested!"

"Are you?" Lula is entirely unaffected by my hand flapping and screeching. She's the picture of calm and I feel like a wrung-out washcloth.

I open my mouth to deny it, but nothing comes out. Oh, crap.

* * *

I still haven't figured out anything when Bobby calls me the next day (due in large part to my trip to Denial Land) and asks to see Phoebe and I. Phoebe _and I_. As in, he is asking specifically for me to join them. Gulp.

I agree to bring Phee to the park and spend a few minutes changing her and packing a snack. I'm determined not to make an effort with my own looks; after all, it's just Bobby and I am NOT out to impress him. No siree.

Fifteen minutes later, after I've changed and touched up my makeup (I know, I know) we are on our way. I'm the smallest bit apprehensive and…excited? I shake my head and focus on the road. Plenty of time for that later. Right now, I need laser focus. Bobby is Phoebe's dad and that's what today is about. I nod, happy that my priorities are finally straight.

Except when I park next to his car and he unfolds himself from his front seat, I can't help but whimper. Bobby has either been living in the gym or he's turned into Popeye, because the snug-fitting tank top he's wearing showcases his muscular arms and torso. His cargos sit just low enough on his hips that I can see the definition of his abs, and he's sporting a blinding smile and looking right at me. I haven't had a social orgasm since before he left, and my hormones are screaming in protest.

I spend a few quick seconds scolding my hormones and checking for drool before I open my own car door to greet him. His smile widens, and I'm sure the effect he's had on me is obvious. I know, from the heat in my cheeks, that I'm blushing as I murmur a greeting and open the back door of my car.

Phoebe catches her first glimpse of Bobby and screeches in pure delight, and I take a step back from the door to let him at her; "She's all yours," I say with a smile. Huge mistake; HUGE. If Bobby's front view is a sight to behold, the view of his rear could make angels weep. He's bent over, unbuckling Phoebe and talking to her, and all I can do is perv on the view of his back muscles and his ass. I groan and thunk my forehead with my palm; I'm going to Hell for sure.

I manage not to embarrass myself completely as we take turns pushing Phoebe on the swings and catching her at the bottom of the slide. Bobby keeps up a steady stream of conversation, but it's light, not invasive, and altogether pleasant. I'm learning a lot about how he spends his time these days, and I get the feeling he's trying to make himself accountable to me. Hmm…that's something to think about.

I'm actually surprised when Phoebe starts getting fussy and glance at my watch; it's almost dinner time. The afternoon has flown by and I'm surprised to find that I don't want it to end.

"Do you want to come have dinner with us at my house?" It's out of my mouth before I can reconsider it, and I'm a little shocked at myself. It wasn't me that asked, it was my libido.

Bobby's answering grin melts my trepidation and he agrees to follow me back. I'm smiling and cool as I buckle Phoebe into my car, but as soon as I back out of the space I start to freak.

"Oh, crap crap crap!" I yell as I bang my hand on the steering wheel; what the hell was I thinking?

"Crap!" echoes my little parrot from the back seat, and I groan.

"No no, baby, momma didn't say that – look, a bird! Bird, Phoebe!" This is her current favorite game, pointing out every bird she sees and announcing that it is, in fact, a bird.

"Crap!" she screams and giggles. Crap, indeed.

The dream I had is still fresh in my mind, and I'm more than a little confused about Bobby's openness about his current status. I'm sure he's hoping for some sign that I'm ready to test those waters, and if I'm honest with myself…I'm a bit intrigued. I'm scared and anxious, sure, but being with Bobby and seeing how great he's become with Phoebe makes me want to shed the past couple of years and just remember _before_ – before the pregnancy that sent my world into a tailspin, before everything was tinted with resentment, back when I fell hard for the first man who accepted me. Joe wanted my commitment without accepting me, and Ranger accepted me without desiring a commitment. Bobby was a happy, wonderful meeting of the two; he accepted my job and my lack of finesse and seemed to revel in our relationship. Phoebe was a what pulled me through the days after he left, and I'm grateful to have her…but the loneliness I've lived with has been hard and harsh at times. I miss him.

I have to pull myself out of my doldrums because we've arrived at our home, and Bobby is right behind us. He angles out of his car (yum) and takes a moment to survey the street (double yum) before he strides over to us.

"I'll get her," he says, his smile shy and sweet, and I melt the teeniest bit while he's unlatching Phoebe's car seat. I hurry ahead of them to unlock the door, then wait with Phoebe on the porch while he does a quick sweep of my home. Once we're all inside, I ask him what sounds good for dinner.

His eyebrows raise in surprise. "You cook? Should I be worried?" he teases.

I shrug in return and open the fridge. "It was either learn to cook or starve. Eating out for every meal got to be too expensive while I was keeping Phee here in clean diapers." I meant for the comment to be teasing, but I can tell by the pained expression on his face that I've hit a sore spot.

I lean across my tiny breakfast bar and squeeze his arm, hoping to reassure him. "Don't do that," I say softly, catching his eyes with mine. "Moving forward, remember?"

He grimaces slightly before nodding and clearing his throat. "So, what culinary masterpiece are you going to whip up?"

I snort and roll my eyes. "I learned to cook out of necessity, not pleasure – I can make a pretty mean stir-fry. Ella taught me because it doesn't take a lot of time and reheats well; does that sound okay?"

He smiles and nods, and I set him up with a cutting board and some veggies. He slices onion and red pepper, mushrooms and garlic while occasionally putting a bite-sized morsel on Phoebe's high chair tray. She's happy to snack and 'talk' to us while I quickly heat the wok and add the ingredients.

Dinner is carried on in the same pleasant vein of the afternoon. He tells me about Lester's latest short-term girlfriend, a stripper from Domino's named Lana who apparently robbed him while he slept and had the bouncer throw Les out when he came to her work demanding his wallet.

"So now he's banned from Domino's," he finishes, shaking his head and quaking with quiet laughter, and I can't help but join in.

"That's really going to cut down on his dating pool prospects," I quip, chucking my girl on her chin and eliciting a slobbery smile from her. Bobby laughs with her and agrees.

"I told him that he's getting too old to keep playing the game but he just says that since you're not on the market, he's not settling down." I laugh and shake my head; Lester, God bless him, has been salve to my ego the past couple of years. It's one of the reasons we got so close while Bobby was gone; he kind of took it upon himself to keep me from wallowing in self-pity, and the best way he knew how to do that was to use completely outrageous lines to hit on me. There were some days when the only bright spot was Les waggling his eyebrows at me and asking if I needed help 'buttering my muffin'.

I glance at Bobby, still smiling from my ruminations, and find him looking at me sort of intently while he asks, "Is he right?"

It takes me a few seconds to understand the question, and when I do I carefully set down my glass and don't lift my eyes to meet his.

"That I'm not on the market? Is that what you're asking?"

When he doesn't reply I risk a glance and find his eyes boring a hole in mine. He only nods and the moment is so intense, so _full_ , that it takes my breath away and I can only stare mutely back at him. I wasn't expecting to talk about this, not so soon after he first broached the subject; my mouth is dry and I'm absolutely frozen, terrified that I'll say the wrong thing, and worse…I don't know if I want to encourage his pursuit of me or kill it stone dead.

Now would be an excellent time for a screaming fit from my daughter or a phone call, but there's nothing; nothing but Bobby and me in some sort of unbreakable trance, fraught with words we can't voice. I feel unhealed from the time we spent apart, and at the same time unbroken, floating in a purgatory that I'm not sure I'm ready to leave…yet.

"I don't know," I whisper, and the moment is so raw and so uncertain that I want to cry for us both. I expect hurt from him, maybe anger, but he only nods and squeezes my hand before he leans forward and presses the softest of kisses on my cheek.

"Can I give Phoebe her bath tonight? I'm not quite ready to let her go yet," he says, standing and clearing our dishes. The abrupt change in topic is confusing, and I'm loathe to leave our conversation teetering on the edge of a breakthrough. I'm completely perplexed and it must show on my face because when he comes back to lift Phoebe out of her chair he stops next to me and pulls me from my chair.

"Steph, it's okay," he says, his voice soft and earnest.

"It is?" my own voice is weak and unsure compared to his. I feel adrift and unsure, and like he always has, Bobby sets me to rights.

"I want you back in my life," he says, so matter-of-factly and poised that I can't help but feel a bit envious of him, that he knows what he wants from all of this. "I want us to be a couple, a family, and whatever you want that to look like is fine with me. But it's okay that we're not there yet. It just means I get to keep trying with you, and believe me, that is no hardship." Then he angles his head and lowers it slowly, brushing my lips with his once, twice, before he smiles at me and carries our daughter off to the bathroom like he hasn't just rocked my very foundation.


	12. Chapter 12

_**a/n: I'm going to attempt to toggle back and forth, simultaneously, between 2 events – one past, one present. Please bear with me, I'm going**_

 _ **somewhere with it!**_

* * *

 **BPOV**

My cell phone beeps, alerting me of a new text message. I pause my inventory counting and open the app to check it. I don't bother to smother my sigh since I'm alone; I haven't had many visitors the past few days, and there's no one here to hear me. The text is from Steph and is, predictably, short and to the point.

" _We're in the lobby."_

Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck my life, fuck my choices, and most especially, fuck that bitch Marta. Just thinking of her puts me in a thunderous mood, one that I don't want Phoebe to be a witness to, so I try and stow my anger for later and I stand to work my way to the lobby of Rangeman.

* * *

 _I'd been in the gun range, putting in my requisite hours for the month, when I got an eerily similar text message from Les._

" _Lobby NOW."_

 _The sinking feeling I'd gotten from that text made me nauseous, the foreboding filling me with dread. I released my clip and unchambered the last round before I took off for the stairwell at a dead run._

* * *

My pace is slow, measured; while I can't wait to see my daughter, I will take every opportunity to prolong facing Stephanie. It's so hard to see her these days; the hurt I know she feels is absent, a blank stare in its place. The rage, the railing, the ranting that should be at hand are not; all I've been privy to is a Stephanie that reminds me eerily of Ranger when he's working. It's disturbing and it's entirely my fault.

I decide to take the elevator, knowing that someone on monitors would see me shame-facedly stalling in the stairwell at a snail's pace. It's one embarrassment I can spare myself, so I do. The doors ding and slide open and I step inside, errantly wondering if this is what it feels like to be shut inside a coffin.

* * *

 _I'd come hurtling out of the stairwell like the hounds of Hell were on my heels, only to come to stop so fast I nearly lost my footing. There stood Stephanie with my sweet baby in her arms, so pale she looked corpse-like and very obviously on the verge of a panic attack. And standing just a few feet away from her, a smug look on her face, was a woman I'd hoped would never breath New Jersey air._

* * *

The elevator dings again, announcing my arrival, and I steel myself for an emotionless greeting. I remember almost fondly my initial meeting with Stephanie, after I'd come back from Purgatory in Atlanta, when she'd spat venom and mistrust at me. Anything, any emotion, is better than the barren impassiveness I'm met with now…but I am to blame, so I must bear it.

I approach, slowly and with a forced smile – my listlessness is not her fault, and I won't heap the burden of my despair on her shoulders. I will withstand her cold and indifferent heart because it's nothing more than I deserve.

"Stephanie," I greet her with preemptory ease, praying for her to grace me with a smile or a kind word, a ray of light in my dark, dark day.

* * *

" _Stephanie," I called her name, hand outstretched, begging God to please, please not let this be as bad as it looks. I made a dozen promises to Him in the space of time it took me to cross that lobby floor if only He would make sure Stephanie never found out the truth about Marta._

 _I ignored the smirking harpy completely, my hand extended, begging without words for Steph to please just come to me and not hate me, but she just stood there, owl-eyed and trembling, staring right into my wretched, traitorous soul while I cursed myself inwardly. Les stood slightly behind Steph, solemn and quiet, and that was almost as scary as Stephanie looking like she was going to vomit all over the Rangeman lobby floor._

 _She opened her mouth to speak, and I held my breath and prayed for a miracle._

* * *

Steph only nods at me, curt and dismissive before she shifts Phoebe in her arms to tell her goodbye.

I feel like a voyeur as I listen to Steph murmur loving words and cover Phoebe's cheeks in kisses, slowly bending to retrieve the diaper bag Steph thoughtfully packed for our overnight visit. And even though her warmth isn't directed at me, I bask in it, edging toward it, trying vainly to step into the circle of her light. I am pathetic and starving for her, and every fiber of my being knows it.

She opens her mouth to speak, and I hold my breath, praying for absolution.

* * *

" _Is it true? What she said, is it the truth?" Steph asked, her voice a shadow of itself. I opened my mouth, entirely unable to find the words,_ _ **any words**_ _, that would not sever her life from mine._

" _I'm asking you, Bobby, if you went to Atlanta and started a relationship with this…person. Did you leave me here because I got pregnant and go start over fresh with someone new? Did you even wait a_ _ **day**_ _before you started fucking her? Or was she part of your plan all along – were you planning to leave me for her?"_

 _Mutely, dumbly, I shook my head, a steady murmur "No, no, no…" the only other sound. Marta, in her Rangeman uniform, stood silently. She'd already delivered the fatal blow; there was no need to mutilate the corpse. Steph's jaw clenched, her eyes narrowed, and she took a deep breath._

* * *

"I'll be by tomorrow after her nap to get her; just text me when she wakes up."

She turns to walk out the door and I call after her, just a quick goodbye that only elicits a wave of her hand before she's swallowed up by the city again. It's expected but it still guts me, so I jostle my sweet girl to get a giggle from her and go to make my way back up to my apartment.

My precocious little sweetheart knows that daddy has the good bath toys, and she heads straight for the tub. I run her a bath and strip her down, and after that it's mostly sitting on the floor watching her; she is pretty particular with her bath toys, and as I watch her, my idle hands give my mind free reign to wander.

* * *

" _TELL ME!" Stephanie shouted, startling Phoebe. Her little wail seemed to galvanize Lester into action, and he quickly lifted her from Steph's arms. Stephanie only stared at me, seemingly not noticing._

" _It wasn't like that," I said, and even to my own ears the excuse was pathetic so I surged forward. "We were never a couple, not for a_ _ **day**_ _, it was never about that and I NEVER met her before I left here to go to Atlanta, Steph, I didn't leave you for her - "_

" _No, you just replaced me with her." The pain, the utter disdain and the contempt in Steph's voice was palpable, and I'd winced as it seeped into my pores._

" _I_ _ **didn't**_ _. It was a night,_ _ **one**_ _night and it was stupid and impulsive and I regretted it as soon as it was done – "_

" _THEN WHY IS SHE HERE FOR YOU?!" Stephanie lurched toward me and started screaming words at me, words I couldn't hear. All I knew was that she was absolutely hysterical, and as my muscles were regaining feeling and my brain registered this I tried to move forward, to touch her, to hold her and tell her that I never meant to sleep with the Rangeman office manager while I was in Atlanta, that I was wallowing in a pit of self-loathing and she sniffed me out like a trained hound, that I was weak and I gave into her advances one evening to try and anesthetize that part of me that never stopped aching when I left Stephanie Plum in Trenton, but as soon as my hand made contact with her cheek she slapped it away._

" _Don't fucking touch me, Bobby, never again. I'm done, done with you…done with all of it." Her voice broke and a single sob escaped before she drew in a deep breath and spat, "I am fucking DONE."_

 _She'd spun on her heel then, grabbed Phoebe from Lester's arms and marched toward the doors that lead to the garage. I'd panicked, shouted her name and bolted after her, pleading and apologizing for fucking things up again, begging her not to leave like this and to not take my daughter from me._

" _Please, Steph, don't leave like this – I'm so fucking sorry, it was a huge mistake and I regret it but please don't do this."_

 _She'd thrown a glare, full of venom over her shoulder before spitting back, "This is already done._ _ **You**_ _did this. I will not let you keep hacking pieces of me away and coming back for more. You don't want me? Fine. I'm gone."_

 _I was desperate when I yelled after her, "I love you! Stephanie, please, I love you!"_

 _Without breaking her stride and without looking back, she said, "Not enough," before wrenching open her door and trying to buckle an upset Phoebe into her car seat._

 _Steph was in no state to listen to me, she didn't care what I had to say; she was also in no state to drive. Lester tied up that loose end neatly when he loaded a still seething Stephanie into her passenger seat and climbed behind the wheel himself. Within seconds, they were gone._

* * *

Phoebe's delighted squeal brings me back to the present, and I watch as she pours cup after cup of water over her mermaid's hair. I'm thankful that I have this, of course I am, but there's a pit inside me where Stephanie Plum once cared for me that will never be filled.

After Lester'd taken her home that day, I dragged myself back inside and toward the elevator. Marta, the snake, had tried to follow and tell me how she was only trying to remark to Stephanie that her baby looked a lot like her man, and did she know Bobby? And didn't Steph think it was so sweet of Marta to surprise me since we hadn't seen each other in months?

I hadn't bothered to answer her; she knew exactly what she was doing and who she was talking to. I'd just tagged the button until the door shut. The trip to my apartment was a blur, and the following hours were a mass of regret and pain and quite a bit of tequila. When my cell rang, hours later, I'd never expected Steph to be on the other end.

 _As soon as I answered with a sluggish greeting, Stephanie started speaking._

" _I was calling to apologize to you," she began, her voice gritty and hoarse. I tried to interrupt her, to protest that she had nothing to apologize for, but she stopped me._

" _I_ _do_ _owe you an apology. I ran out of there with Phoebe today and it was your day with her, so we can make that up as soon as you have the time. And I'm, um, also sorry for yelling at you. It's not my business who you keep, uh, company with. We're not a couple and haven't been in a very long time, and I had no right to get upset about it."_

 _I'd waited, impatiently, for her to get it out so I could set her straight. "Steph, you owe me nothing. You have every right to be mad at me for – "_

" _But that's the thing," she interrupted, "I don't. You and I aren't together, we haven't been since right after I got pregnant and we_ _certainly_ _weren't a couple when you were in Atlanta." Her voice had grown increasingly bitter as she spoke, so she cleared her throat before she continued. I wanted desperately to correct her, to tell her that of course she should be upset because I belonged to her, I had since the day she kissed me the first time, but my heart was in my throat and I couldn't get the words out._

 _She continued, "You're free to see whoever you want. I overreacted and I'm sorry."_

 _I found my voice. "You didn't," I whispered, my heart sinking to the soles of my feet because I could see where this was leading. "You should be mad, furious, even, because I was so awful to you but you know that it's different now, that I'm different than I was. Right? We're moving forward, you said so yourself; 'no looking back', remember? Remember?" I held my breath, waiting._

 _She didn't make me wait long. "I am so tired of getting clobbered," her voice was weak and reflected the sadness I was saturated in. "I don't have it in me to do this anymore. I'm sorry."_

True to her word, Stephanie has been accommodating – generous, really – with Phoebe's time. I've seen Phoebe in abundance, and while I've treasured it, nothing can make up for the absence of Stephanie. She has completely removed herself from my life in every way that matters; she answers my texts, but only if they're directly pertaining to Phoebe. She is polite but tense when we meet to exchange our daughter, and she doesn't stick around for small talk. I am starving in the Land of Plenty; I cannot find solace anywhere, and in truth, I know I don't deserve it. I am resolved, not to give up on Stephanie Plum – I don't think it's a possibility – but to live within her carefully constructed parameters. If I can give her this, grant her this peace of mind, I will.

* * *

 _ ***To give credit where it is due, I played with the simultaneous story arcs because I read another story where the author did the same thing - it's called 'Cutting Corners' by haleigh.l and it's an oldie but a goodie. I've always liked the way she did it, I thought it was a good way to further a storyline without dragging it out.**_


	13. Chapter 13

**SPOV**

I roll my eyes and lean against the counter in the empty break room, my cell phone held tightly to my ear.

"I don't know, Lou," I hedge, not really wanting to have this conversation in the first place, "Phoebe's really been clingy lately and it's not a good time to leave her overnight, and I'm honestly just not up for it." I'm searching through the cabinets, hoping the TastyKake Fairy somehow got past Ranger's safeguards last night, but all I see is packages of dried fruit and clean coffee mugs.

"Come on, Stephie!" she's persistent today; using her childhood nickname for me is Mary Lou's version of pulling out the big guns. "You and I haven't been out since the last time Lenny forgot our anniversary and **you** need to get back to the land of the living! It's one night out, I haven't seen you in forever!"

Just the mention of my self-imposed solitude is enough to make me sad – an improvement from the crying jags it sent me on a month ago, but this whole horrible situation has marked me. I'd never considered Bobby moving on, I guess, though I should have; him leaving me pregnant was all I'd focused before I had Phoebe, and then afterward I had so little time to do anything but learn to take care of her that I didn't spend a lot of time thinking of him. Logically, I know that Bobby leaving signified our breakup and I shouldn't care that he slept with another woman while he was at Rangeman in Atlanta…but matters of the heart are rarely logical. The hurt I felt when I met her, the pretty Rangeman employee who came up to spend a weekend with Bobby, is imbedded deep in my skin. It feels like a betrayal, though it isn't, and I haven't navigated it very gracefully.

"Hello? Helloooooo…" Mary Lou's sing-song voice comes through loud and clear, and I know she must've called my name more than once.

"Sorry. I was off catching fairies," I offer her, stretching my neck to relieve some of the tension there.

"So, what do you think about this weekend?" Mary Lou presses. " _Please_ , Steph, I could really use a girls' night, and I'm pretty sure you could stand to take your mind off of Bobby. Have you talked to him?"

I huff and crane my head, trying to make sure I'm still alone in the breakroom before I answer. "You know I haven't," I grumble. "I made a complete fool of myself at Rangeman – "

"But you said he understood why you lost your cool," she interrupts.

"It's more than just that." I weigh my words carefully, surprised at how much clarity I feel now as opposed to when it happened. "We'd come a long way in reestablishing trust since he came back to Trenton, and he left out something that was important for me to know but, at the same time, was really none of my business. I guess I just feel that if he'd offered it to me, it would've meant something. The fact that he didn't means something just as big to me, Lou."

"Are you sure you can't just overlook it and move on? I thought you two were getting on really well." Her voice is full of sympathy. I cannot handle sympathy right now, not about this.

"Nope." All I can manage to choke out is a succinct reply, and because she knows me, Mary Lou lets me off the hook.

"Well, then, there's no reason not to go out with me! Celebrate life! Try and get yourself laid!"

I sputter and choke at that. "Mary Lou Molnar Stankovich!" Mary Lou: Soccer Mom Extraordinaire no longer has a potty mouth; raising 3 boys has given her an aversion to it. I'm a little delighted to hear her break it out again, and the mirth in her voice is making me giddy and a little excited, too.

"Come on, Steph, clear out those cobwebs and dust off a pretty dress! It's been, like, _years_ , as in _plural_. Woman cannot subsist on battery powered lovers and massaging showerheads alone. If you say Bobby is off the table, then he's off, but it means you need to start living again. Okay? You're not going to leave me hanging, right?"

In the end, I agree to go out with her tomorrow night to some club that just opened near Philly. It was a valiant battle but I knew from the start of it that I'd lose. I agree to text Connie and Lula to see if they're available, and we hang up just as Ram enters the breakroom. He smiles and greets me, and on a whim I ask him if Elise is busy tomorrow night; I've only met his girlfriend a couple of times, but she recently moved in with him from Princeton a couple of months ago and I like her. He agrees to pass along my request and my phone number, so I give up on my snack search and head back to my desk. A quick text to Bobby confirms that he is happy to keep Phee overnight this weekend, so I settle in and pull another search request from my basket and growl. Rodriguez. One of these days I was going to find where he's hidden in this building and smoke him out. The thought makes me smile and I dig into my search.

* * *

I come awake by degrees, not entirely willing to surface; I know it's going to be bad, I just _know_ it, and I'm trying to stave off the inevitable as long as possible.

Slowly, ever so painstakingly, I crease one eye open and wince; the light shoots through the slit I made, searing my brain and making my stomach lurch. I squeeze my eyes shut and hold as still as possible, trying to figure out my next step.

The bar Mary Lou chose last night was boring and entirely too sedate for the five of us; Elise had accepted my invitation and surprisingly got on well with all of us. We'd decided to hit the club scene (after plenty of social lubricant at the dive we started out at), and somewhere around midnight we were tangle in a throng of revelers, gyrating and grinding while Flo Rida rapped about being a Zillionaire. After that, things are hazy at best.

I inhale deeply and I'm immediately on alert; these are not my sheets. Holy shit. Cautiously, I crack one eye open and ignore the sharp pain as the sunlight stabs my brain. Ack! A hairy arm with a New York Rangers logo tattooed on its forearm and attached to a smooth torso is all I can focus on before I have to squint my eye shut again. Ow, ow, ow.

As slowly as I can, I extricate myself from this strange bed and I'm absolutely mortified to find that I'm naked. I tiptoe around the room, grabbing my clothing and offering up a shameful prayer of thanks when I see the used condom (ick!) in the trash can; Blind-Drunk Steph may have poor decision-making skills but at least she was safe. I ghost out of the bedroom, clothes in hand, and barely get the door shut before I'm racing to find a bathroom with my hand over my mouth. I see the kitchen first and make it to the sink just in time to puke all over Mr. Mystery's dirty dishes.

The hangover is really kicking in now, so I do a piss-poor job of rinsing them with his sprayer and get dressed as quickly as I can. I offer a quick, silent apology to the man I spent the night with before I grab the purse and shoes I left by his apartment door and hustle. When I find my way outside, I stand blinking and slack-jawed, staring around me. I have literally no Earthly idea where I'm at, so I put my head down and take off toward the tall buildings a few blocks away. My luck changes after about 3 blocks; a post office. I have an address and a location now.

I quickly run through my options; a cab is out since it might get back to my dad, and I'm not ready for _that_ conversation from my mother. I can't call Rangeman because I'm not on the clock and, though I can't explain why, I don't want word to get back to Bobby about this. I'm also not ready to face the girls I went out with last night; they had front row seats for whatever preceded me sleeping with a total stranger and while I know it's not their fault, I can't help but feel a bit peevish at them for letting me get myself into this. There's really only one other option, and as much as I hate to call her, I really don't have much choice in the matter.

I pull out my phone and have to bite back a sob; the screen is totally black. If my battery is dead, I'm absolutely fucked.

Thankfully, I just powered it off at some point last night and I've got almost half a battery; that's more than enough for what I need. I wait for the stream of pings announcing texts and voice mails to quiet before I can finally make my phone call.

* * *

With a sigh of relief, I open the passenger door and climb in. I almost cry in gratitude as the smell of McDonald's fries hit me, and I stuff a handful in my mouth before my seatbelt is even buckled.

"Thanks, Val, I owe you _big time_ ," I say around the fries. She remembered the Coke, bless her, and I take a big swig. Almost immediately, my stomach starts to calm and the vice-like headache reduces to a low roar.

Valerie snorts, a very un-Valerie like noise, and says, "You got me out of bed on a Sunday before 7am and told me I had to drive to Princeton to get you. You owe me babysitting _and_ a story."

I nod, stuffing more fries in my mouth before I answer her. "Yeah, okay…just, promise it stays between us, yeah? It's not my finest moment." I sort of mumble the last part and a wave of regret brings some color to my pasty cheeks. I have never had a one-night stand; the closest I've ever come was the night I spent with Ranger after the DeChooch Deal, but that was more of a 'running-with-scissors' thing than an actual honest-to-God casual fling. There'd been nothing casual about my feelings for Ranger, and he'd been a part of my life afterwards…so no. This was it, my sole discretion. I shudder, forcing the bile back down.

I start with Marta's appearance at Rangeman and run through the story quickly, staring out the window, unable to look at my sister's face as she listens to me spill my guts. I don't know how men can do this, day in and day out; be in such an intimate position with a stranger and then leave the next day, never intending to speak to them again. I feel like I need to soak in a tub of antibacterial gel.

When I'm done, Val pulls over to the curb and parks before she reaches across me and opens her glove compartment. She grabs the tissues and hands them to me; I'm surprised to find my cheeks wet with tears.

"Do you think I'm a slut?" I burst into tears, big, ugly loud ones, after I ask her that. Saint Valerie was, in hindsight, maybe not the best person to share my shame with.

"No." Her voice is resolute and firm; it surprises me to silence. I risk a peek at her and she's stoic, her jaw set; Valerie Kloughn is determined. "You aren't a slut, Steph; you're a woman in crisis and you hit a low point, and you did what a lot of women do – instead of allowing yourself to heal at your own pace, you tried to force it... by way of a strange man's penis." I stare at Val in shock for the briefest moment before the corner of her mouth twitches and we lose it. I laugh myself into more tears and, strangely, I feel much better when we finally settle down.

"You really think so? I feel so, ugh, _gross_ and like I don't want anyone to know about it." I'm really struggling with the overwhelming shame I feel, and I desperately want to erase last night.

Val is oddly nonchalant when she answers me. "Uh, _hello_?! I was a lesbian for an entire week after my husband left me high and dry! I felt really stuck and undesirable and so I turned to women. You turned to random dick. Two sides of the same very ugly coin, my friend. The thing is, you tried it and you know it's not an effective coping mechanism for you, so now you get to figure out your next move. How did you cope when Ranger broke up with you?"

My answer is immediate and deadpan. "I didn't, not really. I locked myself up in my apartment for a solid week and ate my weight in Ben and Jerry's. By the time I ventured out I could only fit into my sweat pants." Val shudders; I'm sure she's remembering what drinking gravy like it was an anecdote to poison did to her body during pregnancy.

"So what got you out of the apartment?"

"Bobby," I whisper. Saying his name brings on a fresh wave of tears, and while brief, the ache it leaves behind settles into my chest. "He sort of stepped in and forced me out, and reminded how nice life outside my apartment could be. That's how we started dating; it was just sort of a natural progression."

Val grimaces. "I'm no shrink, Steph, but even I know you can't get over one man by getting under another one."

I shrug and gesture for her to get back on the road; I _really_ need that shower. "I think it did, though. When I saw all the things Bobby gave me that Ranger didn't, I think I sort of realized that Ranger wasn't meeting a lot of the needs I have. I loved him but I think I was reliant on him for the wrong things, you know? Being Bobby's girlfriend kind of highlighted Ranger's deficiencies; I think that helped me get over the hump."

"So how do you get over _this_ hump?" She's sort of cajoling me along, ushering me toward a conclusion; I remember our mom doing this when we were kids and I can't help but smile. This apple didn't fall far from the tree.

"Not with random sex, that's for sure," I grouse.

"What about a date?" she says, all casual and nonchalant, so I know it's what she's been leading up to.

I sputter and start to protest before she interrupts. "Hear me out before you shoot me down – you've been on your own, totally dedicated to Phoebe, and haven't done anything to take care of _you_. I think experiencing a man being interested in you will go a long way in getting you back on your feet, so to speak. Albert's cousin is visiting at my mother-in-law's, he's about our age and – "

"No!" I yelp, and immediately regret it. My brain feels like it's trying to escape my skull and I have to take a moment to collect myself before I can speak again.

"No, thank you," I try again, suitably more reserved. "I don't really like blind dates, but I'm sure Albert's cousin is, uh, lovely."

Val sniffs, only mildly put out, before she presses on. "So you'll at least try to find a date for yourself?"

We turn onto my street and I'm so relieved I could weep. In this moment, I'd agree to pretty much anything she asked of me.

"Yes! I'll keep my eye out for totally eligible men, okay! Yeesh." Impulsively, I lean across the console and kiss Valerie's cheek as she stops her car in front of my house.

"Thanks, Val. You really saved me today."

She smiles and tells me to enjoy my shower, pulling away as soon as I make it to the door. m

After a 30-minute shower and 3 cups of coffee, I'm feeling mildly human again. I take my time dressing, opting for loose pants and long sleeves. I feel exposed today, and I'm sort of trying to hamper that with my clothing. A quick text to Bobby to let him know I'm on my way, and I set off for Rangeman to pick up my daughter.

I park in the parking garage and make my way toward the elevator that will take me to Phoebe. I feel better, lighter somehow, now that I'm back in familiar territory, like I can pretend last night didn't happen because it's my little, shameful secret. It's easy to chirp a good morning to Ram, who exits the elevator as I'm entering it. He only flushes pink and mumbles a quick greeting before beating feet for one of the fleet cars. Odd.

Bobby doesn't answer his door when I knock on his apartment, so I try the 5th floor offices. There, I run into Woody, Slick, and Tank, all of whom seem a bit out of sorts when I ask if they've seen Bobby. I can feel the unease creep into my gut; they couldn't know about last night, could they? And even if they did, it's not like they're monks, right? Surely that wouldn't make them feel awkward around me…

Unless Bobby knows. Shit, shit, shit. Yep, that'd do it.

I find him in the medical suite, unpacking first aid kits and checking their contents while Phoebe plays in her playpen at his side.

"Hi," I call out to announce my presence, and I see his spine stiffen before he forces his shoulders to relax. I know I shouldn't, but I feel guilty.

He lays down the supplies in his hands and bends to scoop Phoebe up before wordlessly handing her over to me. He takes a moment to silently gather the toys she was playing with and pack them into her bag; the quiet has gone from uncomfortable to downright arctic. There is a part of me that wants to apologize, to bridge this chasm I feel between us, but I wouldn't even know where to begin. How do either of us apologize to the other for hurtful actions we shouldn't have to own?

I'm pulled from my reverie as he comes over and holds out Phoebe's bag to me, his eyes trained on the baby girl in my arms. His face is blank and his posture rigid, and because I know him so well I know he's angry and hurt and it guts me to know that, however inculpable, I'm the cause. We have each cut each other to the quick without meaning to, and I can only imagine that he feels as helpless as I. There is nothing I can think to do about it at the moment, so I murmur a hasty goodbye and turn to leave.


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: I know this took forever to get out - school has been eating up all my writing time! If you like this, please thank legalliz by going over to her page and reading her awesome stories, she hounded me relentlessly to write another chapter. If anyone needs a debt collected, she's your girl (; (she's terrific, go review her stories!)_

 **BPOV**

I sit at the monitors, staring at the screens and not really seeing them, brooding and sullen and entirely uncaring. She really did it. Stephanie slept with someone else, and not just anyone else – some total random, a person who means less than nothing to her, and the worst part is that she was entirely within her rights to do it. The bed I lie in is one I've made for myself and its justice is agonizing.

A lidded cup appears in front of my face, forcing me to focus. I feel numb, detached, and have to some degree since the day Steph found out about _my_ one-night-stand. Still, coffee is a scent that invokes reflex and I grab at the cup without looking to see who brought it. I'm not fit for company and I really, _really_ hope whoever it is just leaves.

But, this is me and this is my life, so of course it doesn't happen that way. Silent as a falling tear, Ranger seats himself next to me. He doesn't speak…but then, he so rarely does that his silence is expected. What isn't expected is how long he sits, in silence, and watches monitors with me. It's…peaceful, oddly enough. I think I've gotten so used to feeling isolated that his presence is impacting me more than normal.

And so we sit, Ric and I, wordlessly sipping our coffee and staring at screens until my relief shows up. We stand, I give my report to Binkie – that is, there's nothing to report – and with a roll of his head Ric beckons me to follow him. I do, because really, I have absolutely nothing else going on.

Ric leads me to the firing range and we spend a quiet hour blowing the heads off little paper men and cleaning up the shells. As we finish up, he finally addresses me.

"Go grab a shower and meet me in my office in an hour."

I only nod and head out. Another fun little side-effect of the suffocating self-loathing that comes from knowing that any chance I might've had at a family has been shot, burned, and buried at sea is that I can't seem to make a decision about anything. What do I eat? Literally whatever is closest at hand. What should I do in my free time? Stare at the TV without knowing what's on it. The only thing that animates me these days is Phoebe. I've just accepted that I'm going to live a half-life from now on; the thought should scare me but I can't seem to find it in me to care.

One hour later I'm seated in a chair in Ranger's office, across from the Man Himself. He wastes no time, steepling his fingers together beneath his chin and looking directly at me.

"Stephanie is dating someone."

It takes a few seconds to realize he hasn't _actually_ struck me, that there wasn't a blow to my chest that has stolen my breath away.

"He's a fireman, met her when Lula blew up her skip's car."

A breath, then two, before I can nod my head.

"I wanted you to know now and not find out when you see her. I want to give you the chance to come to terms with it and not react to it in front of her."

The fist in my gut clenches and then relaxes a few times before I know I'm not going to puke. Only then can I speak, but I can't think of a thing to say. There's nothing _to_ say, really, so I only nod and stand on shaky legs.

I don't notice Ric come around his desk; only when he's in front of me do I look up at him, directly at his face, and really _see_ him for the first time in a long time.

There are lines in his face that I haven't noticed before, etched in his mocha-colored skin. His face is blank, always blank, but his eyes hold a gleam of understanding, and I remember that he, too, went through the Hell of Stephanie moving on from him. The link we share is ugly and unglamorous, but all the same I reach for his hand we share a quick, awkward, one-armed hug before I release him and stumble back to my apartment.

Stephanie is seeing someone. Stephanie is _seeing_ someone. Stephanie _is_ seeing someone. No matter how many times I roll the words around in my head, no matter which word I try to dissect to make it mean less than it does, it rips me to shreds every time.

There is no security, no respite in my apartment. I don't need to lie in my bed to know that sleep won't bring me comfort. I feel adrift, and sad, and hopeless…which is, I imagine, how Steph felt when I abandoned her.

Except she didn't abandon me. It may feel that way, in this moment where I'm missing her and pining for a life that featured Stephanie Plum in it, but the awful truth is that I'm reaping what I've sown. Never mind the talks I had with Steph about forgiveness and fresh starts – I'm here, in this room, pathetic and alone because of **me**. It's a jarring truth and a bitter pill to swallow.

There is no hope of salvaging this day because there is no force on this Earth that will bring the woman I love and the daughter I worship to me, to be mine, so I drift into the kitchen and ferret out a tall bottle of cheap tequila so, if nothing else, I can achieve oblivion for a short time.

* * *

 **SPOV**

I hum and bustle around my room, frowning at my reflection in the mirror. The top I'd planned to wear makes me look…well, 'frumpy' is the word that comes to mind, which makes absolutely ZERO sense; it's been one of my favorites since I lost my baby weight after Phee was born. I never felt frumpy before, I always felt chic and sophisticated… I use my phone to snap a quick selfie and text it to Lula with a string of question marks after it. I only have to wait a minute for a reply:

'NO MOMMY TOPS!'

I sigh and flop down on the bed in my Thinking Position. I've got a date, a real, honest-to-goodness date with an honest-to-goodness man and I have already exhausted my meager supply of outfits I would consider 'sexy' or 'hot'. No one warned me that becoming a mom would mean I would acquire a mom wardrobe.

I grab my phone and call Lula, who doesn't even bother to greet me before launching into a diatribe on why I absolutely can NOT wear that shirt on my date.

"White girl, that tired-ass blouse is gonna have loverman trying to return library books to you, not trying to romance the pants offa you. We need to go shopping. Don't worry, Lula's gonna save your skinny ass – I'm on my way to pick you up, we gonna head to the mall!"

She hangs up on me before I can get in a word, so I bow to the inevitable and stuff myself into a pair of pants and a tee shirt, dress Phoebe and pack her diaper bag.

"Are we gonna go shopping?" I coo at her, delighting in her answering squeal. "You're so happy now, huh, just wait til your crazy Aunt Lula gets here. It won't be all fun and games then, no it won't!" Being with Phoebe is awesome; she's too young to know what I'm saying, she just responds to tone. I've had some of my best talks with her, albeit in a sing-song voice, and she always loves our conversations. My daughter is _definitely_ the coolest kid I know.

Lula arrives with typical Lula fanfare, clad in spandex and…

"Are those…are those _feathers_ on your shirt?"

She huffs and rolls her eyes, clearly at her wit's end with me, her fashion-challenged friend.

"Girl, this here is _chic_. It's what everybody's wearin' right now!"

I take a minute to assess her. "Yeah, maybe, but Lula…those don't look like 'chic' feathers. They look like you pulled them from the dumpster behind Cluck In a Bucket."

"Well, yeah. I can't be spendin no two hundred dollars on ostrich feathers! I figure these will make me look just as hot as that Kate girl from that sinkin' ship movie. Saw it in a magazine; I sewed the feathers onto a regular top myself!"

"You don't say," I murmur, plucking two feathers from my baby's mouth.

At the mall, Lula wastes no time in dragging me from store to store and pulling the most outrageous dresses from the racks, thrusting them at me and shooing me off to the dressing room while she holds Phoebe. Lula has been at least half plucked at this point and looks like a chicken with mange, but I choose (wisely, I think) not to comment on it, since my daughter is doing the plucking.

I accommodate her as best I can, squeezing into dress after dress, my mind on my date tonight, going over what I need to shave and whether or not I'll need to pack an overnight bag finally. I say as much to Lula.

She stares at me for a beat before asking, "You mean you ain't slept with that fine man yet?! I'd have been all over him before we finished appetizers on date #1!"

I shrug, holding a top up and inspecting my reflection before putting it back.

"It just hasn't worked out that way yet," I say, working my way deeper into the store. "Ray has a crazy schedule, I have Phoebe…we've been out three times so far but we've been interrupted by work or had to call it a night because of Phee." I cast an adoring glance at Phoebe, who grins back at me, cheerfully waving around two fists full of feathers.

"Still," Lula huffs, "you don't let no man that looks as fine as him just go without sex – it's not right! He got those big arms and that round butt…and those blue eyes…and that headful of hair that's juuuust long enough that you could grab a handful and yank that head back – "

She's glazed over at this point, so I think it's a good time to relieve her of Phoebe and guide her to the food court.

We grab snacks and drinks, set Phee up in a high chair with her apple puffs and dig in.

"So tonight's the night, huh? About time, girl, you ain't got laid since Phoebe here was cooked up! Well, 'cept for that hairy man you went home from the club with. But everybody knows stuff like that don't hardly count."

I shudder, the image of a New York Rangers tattoo partly obscured by bristly forearm hair popping into my head. It's always what I think of when I remember that morning; I didn't even get a look at his face. I split when I saw the crappy tat.

"I don't know about that," I say with a shrug, pushing the image out of my head. "I just know that since Phoebe is staying the night with Aunt Lula and Ray isn't on call, this might be the night I break my dry spell."

She nods sagely, sneaks a fry into Phoebe's outstretched hand, and asks, "You ready for that?"

"God, yes," I say, rolling my eyes for emphasis. We giggle together and I go on. "It's been _so_ long, and I really like him so far. He's calm like, all the time, which I guess is good since he works in a stressful job. He's not clingy, which is great because right now, Phoebe is my priority. And he's got a butt that is so beautiful I want to spread jelly on it and take a bite."

"You not still sad about, you know," she nods at Phoebe and I feel the ever-present pang of sadness…but I can't let that dictate my life anymore.

"I am," I say. It feels good, being honest about my feelings on Bobby; I had to spend a lot of time denying them, first to keep me from dissolving into a ball of rage and then to guard myself from jumping back into his arms. "I think, probably, a piece of me will always be sad that it didn't work out…but it was tearing me up, Lu. I was just tired of feeling clobbered all the time with him, you know? I need... _something_. Something calm and angst-free and just, happy."

"I can see that," she says after a minute of introspection. "You need to feel safe. That's why you spent so many years keeping Morelli and Ranger both on the line; having two meant you had a safety net if one fell through. Then they both fell through and Bobby made you feel safe, until he left and then you was all alone with no one to make you feel like you wasn't vulnerable. You gotta take care of you, Steph." She stands to go throw away our trash, leaving me feeling a bit stunned.

Is she right? Do I use the men in my life to make myself feel secure, instead of feeling the security that I can provide myself? Because I know Lula so well, I know that she didn't intend to imply that I can't function happily without a man to make me feel good about myself…but that's exactly how I'm feeling right now. It's unsettling and, I know, more than a little unflattering.

I'm forced to shake that off as she approaches the table, assuring me that Macy's will have what we're looking for…which is apparently a dress that's going to 'make old Ray pop a vein when he sees you in it!' Sometimes, it's best just to let Lula have her way with these things.

Macy's did, in fact, have a dress that made me feel sexy and demure at the same time. I bought it, along with other less glamorous but still 'hot ass hot' (according to Lula) outfits to beef up my wardrobe.

After a long bath, I'm plucked and shaved and buffed within an inch of my life. I've taken extra care with my hair and makeup, and with a final spritz of Dolce Vita, I'm ready. I inspect my reflection in the mirror; not bad. Actually, it's pretty good; I think Ray will like it.

Right on cue, my doorbell rings. I grab the large purse that matches my dress and, conveniently, is big enough to hold a toothbrush and a change of clothes, and go to greet Ray.

I'm immediately grateful to Lula for pushing this dress on me; if his open mouth and the sudden tightening of his pants are any indication, Ray _really_ appreciates a good dress.

* * *

The sun is just peeking over the building tops when I come awake. I turn my head to look at the man sleeping next to me, and I'm jolted out of my sleepy fugue when I see the skin of the bare chest I'm curled against is white and not black. It takes less than a second to remember where I am and who I'm with. I was, I think, subconsciously expecting to see Bobby's ebony chest next to me.

I feel shame for thinking of one man while I'm in bed with another and, surprisingly, guilt. I try not to dwell on that and focus instead on last night.

Last night was…well, it was nice. Ray did everything right, from picking me up to choosing a restaurant I'd love and holding me close enough that I felt his desire but not so close it was obscene while we danced after dinner. When he'd asked if I wanted to come back to his apartment for 'coffee', I'd snorted and joked, "Is that what they're calling it now? Because back in my day we called it 'sex'.", he'd stared at me for a beat too long before forcing a laugh out. I still don't know whether he was offended or shocked, but either way, we'd come back to his place and spent the night in bed.

Ray did everything totally by the book. I'm confused, then, as to why I feel so…underwhelmed. I should be basking in the glow of the beginning of a new, solid relationship and post-coital sappiness, but I'm just mildly content. Could it be that Ray just doesn't do it for me? I scoff quietly and roll my eyes; that can't be it. He's terrific! He's smart and he's brave and career-driven, he gives me room to parent my daughter and doesn't act jealous, he's hot as all get-out and he can open olive jars with seemingly zero effort! What's not to love? I mean, sure, the sex was only mildly entertaining, and yeah, maybe his stamina isn't the greatest in the world, but surely there's more to a relationship than mind-blowing, hot, sheet-clawing, steel-bending orgasms, right? Right.

And let's be fair, I reason with myself as I lay next to a softly snoring Ray, my previous experiences are with Joe Morelli, Carlos Manoso and Bobby Brown, all tried and true sex legends and Gods of the Bedroom. It's not fair to compare mere mortal men _who are perfectly adequate(!)_ to men who are unearthly good in all matters carnal.

My mind flits back to lunch with Lula yesterday, when she'd casually mentioned that I used men to make myself feel safe. Certainly, she'd said it much nicer and surely, she'd meant it to reassure me about my decision to not pursue anything more with Bobby…but still. I haven't been able to shake the feeling that Lula is onto something. I will, I know, need to sit down and really consider her words and their implication at some point. But not right now.

Instead, I burrow closer to the perfectly nice man I'm with and let myself drift back to sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

**a/n: it's been awhile! I'm in nursing school, so my free time is pretty much nonexistent, but I have missed writing! And I have been poked and prodded along to update by legalliz, so thanks to you, friend, for buzzing in my ear about finishing this.**

* * *

 **SPOV**

I make my way toward the conference room on the 5th floor of RangeMan, stopping periodically along the way to chat up one of the guys. I'm early, for once in my life, and the meeting doesn't start for another 10 minutes or so. It's a good chance to catch up with my friends.

There is one corner of the 5th floor that I avoid, though. Bobby and I haven't talked about my new 'taken' status yet; in fact, we haven't talked much at all. I still see him on a regular basis – he's as enamored as ever with Phoebe so I see him for a few moments here and there while he's picking her up from me or I from him, but he looks so sad that I can't help but feel guilty. And then I get mad at myself for the guilt, because as Lula keeps reminding me, _I've done nothing wrong_.

My stern talking-to falls flat when I see the Man Himself round the corner and head toward the conference room. He looks hang-dog depressed and I give up trying to talk myself out of caring and do what I should have done weeks ago – I stride purposefully toward him and take his arm, pulling him into an empty room and shutting the door behind us.

When I turn toward him, he looks skeptical, and I immediately see why. I've pulled us into Ella's supply closet. It smells faintly of lemon-scented dirty mop water and cleanser, and it's almost as tiny as the bathroom in my old apartment. So much for setting the tone for the way I want this conversation to go…

Still, I forge ahead. I'm Stephanie Plum! If I can live in a town where I was made famous by a poorly-written cannoli poem about me, I can have this conversation.

Except I forgot that I had no intention of having this conversation. It's spur-of-the-moment, which has always been my specialty, but now…I'm feeling sort of deflated.

"So. Ah, how's it going," I offer, rather lamely. Bobby sees it too, if the single raised eyebrow is any indicator.

"Fine?" His reply sounds more like a question than a response, so with a sigh I decide to just go for it.

"Listen, I'm worried about you. You're, I don't know…less…just _less_. You don't smile, you don't talk, you haven't tried to wrangle a dinner invitation out of me so you could hang out with me and Phoebe even when I made _sure_ to mention that I was making sour cherry rice because I know how much you love when she makes that little sour pucker face-" I'm blathering and I know it, but it's like I unstoppered a drain and now the water swirling down is my anxiety manifesting in this outpouring of nonsensical chatter.

Bobby holds up a hand to stop me, and I do stop, grateful that he put the brakes on my rambling. "I didn't ask myself to dinner because I didn't think your boyfriend would like it," he says, his voice low. I can't help it; I flinch. I'd like to think the volume of his voice was soft because he didn't want the guys to find us skulking around amongst the trash bags and vacuum cleaners like a couple of weirdos, but there was no mistaking the pain that was present. I could ignore it, but what good would that do us? I pulled him in here because I don't want that for him.

"We can't do this to each other anymore," I whisper. I reach out and tug on his hand to make him look at me, and I almost wish I hadn't. I remember, with bone-deep clarity, how shredded I felt when I found out he'd left me, knowing I was pregnant. I remember the way Les or Lula would wince sometimes when I met their eyes, and I know the raw look in Bobby's eyes; 'one tortured soul knows another' and all that. I see what this is doing to him and I need to stop it. So, with a fortifying breath, I take the plunge.

"I don't want it to be like this," I choke out, then clear my throat. "I know it's been bad between us since Marta came to see you-" He opens his mouth to protest, to apologize, to plead his case – it doesn't matter, because I wave him off. "Please, let me finish," I plead, and he nods while his eyes search mine. "Since that day two months ago," I offer, and he nods his head ever so slightly, so I breath a sigh and press on. "It feels like it did when you first came back. Like we can't be in the same room together because there's not enough air for the both of us. I hated that feeling then, and I hate it now. I told you once before that I wanted to just move past everything, and I meant it then and I mean it now. I don't like seeing you like this, it's not fair and it's _not_ okay, so can we just please get past the whole thing? I'm sorry I overreacted, you're sorry you slept with the skank with bad highlights, so we can be good again, right?" I try to make my voice sound cheerful and ignore the lump in my throat that threatens to choke me and the tears I can feel stinging my eyes. I'm upset to the point of tears and I can't figure out why, but I can't concentrate on that right now, because right now I just want Bobby to be happy again. I _**need**_ him to be happy again. I'm clutching his hand, pleading for him to shake off this blue funk and just _be_ _Bobby again_.

* * *

 **BPOV**

I stare at Steph, completely at a loss for words. She thinks I'm unhappy that she's upset with me over Marta? I mean, I am, of course – I hate, absolutely _hate_ that I hurt her again with my chickenshit actions, but that's not the reason I have to force myself out of bed these days. Stephanie being furious with me is a cut, neatly stitched; Stephanie telling me she was giving up on the possibility of a future with me, that she didn't want to try anymore to have our family whole and _actually_ moving on with another man? _That_ is a gaping, mortal wound. That's my lifeblood pouring out in a tidal wave on the ground. That's my happiness, my smile, my peace, gone. I've been hiding in the shadows of my life since she took that chance away, not because I'm an outlaw or a prisoner, but because there, I can live in the memory of what I almost had before I ruined it.

I'm pulled from my musings when I feel Steph squeeze my hand. She looks so earnest that I know I need to afford her what peace I can; to draw this out would be selfish, self-serving, and I don't want to hold her back anymore. And so I smile and I agree, and I thank her for speaking with me. And when she steps forward and wraps her arms around my neck, I bite my cheek until I taste copper to stop myself from weeping at the pity of it all.

Steph takes great care in scoping out the hallway before she opens the door wide enough for her to exit. She throws a sheepish smile over her shoulder and it takes every reserve I have to return it. I feel like a man bound for the guillotine as I follow her into the conference room, my blank face firmly in place. My life, from here on, is going to be the blank face.

We settle around the enormous table, apart from each other. Our detour delayed our early arrival, and now we're just on time and are trying to plant ourselves wherever possible before Ranger comes in. We only have a few moments to glance at each other and share a quick smile – hers shaky, mine artificial – before Ranger strides into the room. The instant quiet that follows in his wake perks me up and I wonder, suddenly and for the first time, what Stephanie is doing at a meeting that Ranger called.

"Gentlemen," he begins, standing at the table head and queuing up the projector, "I've asked all of you, along with Stephanie here today to discuss this man," A face appears on the screen behind him as he hands a stack of papers to his immediate right and left. Everyone takes one and shuffles the shrinking pile down the line, toward my seat as Ranger continues.

"Emil Lipnicki, also known as Ernst Lipnicki, also known as Stan Brown. Emil is on a Federal Bond that has, as of 0900 today, been revoked. His international rap sheet includes blackmail, terrorist threats, kidnapping, rape, and suspected murder. He is currently being sought after for charges that include human trafficking and possession with intent to distribute."

"How the Hell did this guy get bail?!" Hal looks outraged, and we all know why – he's a gentleman at heart, and any crime where a woman is the victim strips away the 'gentle' from the 'giant'.

Ranger looks grim. "His release was lubricated by a well-greased official palm. He is dangerous, he is most likely armed, and he is RangeMan's skip. We have intel that he'll be in Philly tonight to meet a forger for new papers. Emil means to skip town, gentlemen; I mean to stop that from happening. Which is why," he goes on, shifting his focus across the table from me, "I've asked Stephanie here." I feel my gorge rise, because I can see where this is going.

Ranger leans forward and rests his weight on his knuckles, arms stiff against the table top, voice low and serious as he addresses Steph. "I know you don't do distractions anymore, and I fully supported you when you told me you were retiring because you're a mother; they're dangerous and dirty and you can't put yourself in harm's way with Pheobe to consider. But I would be negligent if I didn't at least ask you to reconsider. You're the best I've ever worked with, Stephanie, and I want this guy _bad_."

I feel panicky when I look at Stephanie and she's giving Ranger a look like she's considering it.

"What about Jeanne Ellen?" I blurt. Everyone shifts focus to me, so I seize my opportunity. "She's been doing distractions since Steph was pregnant, right? Why not use her?"

"Jeanne Ellen is shit," Tanks deep baritone carries over the crowded table, and all eyes shift focus to him, like they're watching the tennis match from Hell. "Our capture rate tanks when she's involved. We're currently sitting at a 65% success rate with her; when Bomber worked them, we were above 98%."

A low murmur of appreciation ripples through the bodies, and I feel my apprehension grow. I can't let this happen; I can't let Steph put herself in danger.

"If we know where he is, why don't we just nab him?" I counter, and Ranger grits his teeth together. He sees where I'm trying to take this, and he isn't having it.

"Because we have one chance with him," he growls, "and Stephanie is our best shot at luring him into a trap. Without her, our chances are 50/50. This guy is good at being bad, and if he so much as smells us coming he'll disappear." Stephanie is chewing on her bottom lip, staring at the sheet of paper Ranger doled out earlier, and I can see her brilliant mind analyzing Emil Lipnicki in only the way she can. She's honing in, ferreting out his weaknesses, and that can only mean she's actually considering it. I'm desperate at this point to keep her safe, so I pull out the big guns.

"We have a daughter!" I blurt, and Steph's eyes fly to mine. Encouraged, I press Ranger. "This isn't just about Steph helping RangeMan catch a skip to get paid, we have Pheobe to think about!"

Ranger stiffens and every instinct in my body is screaming that I stepped over some line. His voice is scary-calm when he speaks.

"You think I'd ask Steph to do this for a check?" he murmurs, his eyes white hot and burning. "Fuck. You. I asked Steph to do this because she's the best I've worked with, and because he was trafficking girls. Little girls, some not much older than Pheobe. I want this guy in RangeMan cuffs _tonight_ because if we lose him it's going to be more blood on my hands. You can take your shitty accusations and –"

"I'll do it." Her voice, soft as it is, still carries over Ranger's deadly low growl. I feel my stomach drop, even though I knew she would agree the second Ranger mentioned that Lipnicki was trafficking kids. When no one makes a noise, Stephanie repeats, "I'll do it. I'll help you catch this asshole. And you guys will all keep me safe while I'm doing it." She's talking to all the men seated in the conference room, but she's looking at me and I can't look away from her. We don't speak, and I don't hear what the voices planning the takedown near me are saying. I look at her, and she looks at me, and what we can't bring ourselves to say with our voices, we say to each other with our eyes.


End file.
